


Captive

by obscurum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Malfoy Family, Malfoy Manor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Second War with Voldemort, Shell Cottage, War Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 73,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscurum/pseuds/obscurum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stared at himself in the mirror; the dark bags under his eyes and his pale skin, how empty and hollow he looked - how he felt. He ran his fingers over the streaks of her blood running the length of his cheeks. He stared at his reflection until he no longer saw his face, but hers. The blood crusted into her eyebrows, her cracked lips and bloodied nose, her swollen jaw. Instead of bags under her eyes she had bruising and busted blood vessels. He saw death in her eyes. He saw her death, down in that dungeon at the hands of his aunt while he did nothing; he saw his death, quick and meaningless at the hands of Voldemort, his body left to rot where it lay because he meant absolutely nothing to the Dark Lord; he saw his father, stripped of every ounce of dignity and nobility and left to starve alone in the gutter; he saw his mother, spared from death by her sister but kept as a slave by the Dark Lord and left without anything to live for.</p><p>“Stop it…” He pulled himself away, closed his eyes but she was still there. “Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**“STOP! Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!”**

**“If she dies under questioning, I’ll take you next.”**

**“You are a lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!”**

**“We’ve never been inside your vault...It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!”**

**“It’s a fake.”**

**“Good. And now, we call the Dark Lord.”**

**“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked around, shocked; she turned her wand to face Ron instead - “Expelliarmus!” he roared, pointing Wormtail’s wand at Bellatrix, and hers flew into the air and was caught by Harry.**

**“STOP OR SHE DIES!”**

_Hermione felt her jugular throbbing._ It pulsated and pushed back against the sharp edge of the blade that was slicing a thin line into her throat. Bellatrix's grip tightened around her hair, pulling her head back even farther and pressing the knife even deeper. She was only faintly aware of the yelling going on around her through the sound of her blood flowing through her veins and rushing to her head. There was a crash and a shatter, as a spray of glass shards that sliced into her flesh. Warm, sticky blood slipped from the cuts in her face as she was forcefully thrown from one pair of thin, cold arms and into another. 

“Draco! Take it to the cellars!” ordered Bellatrix.

She would have struggled, but she didn’t have the strength. Malfoy dragged her into the hall, and she made every effort to memorize what turns he took. Out of the drawing room doors, seven large steps, a left, three more steps, a right then...her vision blurred and her stomach flipped. She groaned, as she was sure she missed a step. They went through a heavy wooden door, and down a steep flight of stairs. She landed hard on the cement floor and looked back to the doorway where the tall, blonde boy stood, silhouetted faintly from the light behind him. Her blood was smeared was into his white dress shirt, creating stains that could never be washed away. A strangled sob forced its way out of her mouth as she collapsed in on herself, no longer able to hold it together. He slammed the iron gate, devoid of sympathy, turned his back, and retreated up the staircase. She flinched as the heavy door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. 

In the hall, Draco looked down at himself. His arms were streaked with her blood, his shirt soaking in all that it could. He started toward another staircase at the end of the South Hall, the one that lead up to the bedrooms. He had his shirt off before he reached his room. He carried it with him into his bathroom and threw it into the bin just inside the door. 

“Incendio,” he muttered, his wand pointed at the cloth. A small fire erupted, engulfing all the rubbish. He watched the flames dance, and listened to them cackle as they burned away her muddy blood. Then, with a quick Aguamenti charm, he doused the flames with a small jet of water. Her blood was still splattered across his body, sinking into his skin. The blood of a schoolmate, someone he’d known for over five years, someone who’d gone to the same classes, done the same homework, and eaten the same food, was on his arms, his chest, and his hands. 

His breathing grew shallow and he started to panic. It was still the blood of a mudblood. It was the blood of mudblood and it was sinking into his skin. His arms flew out in front of him and into the bathroom cabinets, desperate to find anything to clean off the filth. He ran the hot water until it was almost scalding. He scrubbed his arms raw and his chest until it hurt so bad he couldn’t continue. His breathing started to calm once he was clean but his pain only worsened. He felt as if he were on fire. His hand tightly gripped the edges of the sink and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, ignoring the pain. A loud crash from below caught his attention. His aunt must not be too pleased. After he found a clean shirt, he went back downstairs, but stopped just outside of the door. 

"How could this happen?!" Bellatrix bellowed. She paced the floor, stomping her heavy boots into the wood. Her chest heaved with anger and her mouth twitched into a snarl. 

"Perhaps if we called upon the Dark-" Lucius began to suggest, his voice wary and a little shaky. But before he could finish Bellatrix spun on her heels and shot a nonverbal spell into his chest. He flew back and landed with a crash on the floor behind him. Narcissa flinched. Bellatrix marched over to Lucius, wand at her side. 

"We had the boy and now we don't! We had the boy and he - got - away!" Lucius kept his eyes closed, but she was so close that he could smell the decay in her breath and feel her matted curls hanging around him. "I don't think my Lord would be too pleased with that, do you?”

With as much dignity as he could muster, he replied with a simple, “no.” Bellatrix straightened up and looked down at him with a crazed gleam in her eyes. She tapped the tip of her wand on her chin.

“In fact I think someone should be punished. This is your filthy house, isn’t it Lucius? So tell me how is it they got away?” Lucius opened his mouth to respond but Bellatrix cut him off, pointing her wand in his direction. “Crucio!” He yelled out in pain, unable to stop himself. 

“Sister!” Narcissa cried out with a forced sternness, shocked and unable to watch the torture of her husband at the hands of her own sister. Bellatrix stopped, but didn’t take her eyes off of Lucius. Seeing a supposedly noble man writhe on the floor in tears of pain at the end of her wand brought her immense joy. “Perhaps the mudblood will know where they’ve gone,” Narcissa offered. Her voice was soft and calm but her heart was beating rapidly. Her sister had not always been this way, but as her devotion to the Dark Lord grew, so did her madness. Bellatrix turned around to face her sister, but a small sound from the other side of one of the doors caught her attention. 

“Draco, you should know better than to eavesdrop!” The door in front of him flew open, almost smashing into his face. His reflexes, honed by years of Quidditch and paranoia, spared him a broken nose. He stumbled back, but quickly regained his composure. With his shoulders squared and his spine straight Draco stepped into the room. Bellatrix snarled at him, primitive, but turned her attention back to Narcissa. “Do you suggest we torture her, Cissy?” She asked, a hopeful tone in her voice. 

“I suggest we do what we have to do.” Narcissa’s gaze went behind Bella and to her husband. Lucius had only just started to stand, using the heavy mantle of large fireplace behind him for leverage. His eyes were glazed over, milky and unfocused. She hated to see him like this, weak and powerless. He’d done so much for their family, given up so much...and for what? For her sister to treat him like a common house elf? Her eyes then darted to the right, toward the entrance of the drawing where Draco, her only son, her only child, was standing in wait. He looked so stoic, so much like his father used to. Would Draco be the next one to cry on the floor in pain? She focused her attention back to her sister. 

Bellatrix cackled and began to lightly skip around. “Torture, torture, torture! Oh lovely, lovely day!” She laughed and clapped her hands, all too happy to inflict insurmountable amounts of pain onto any foul little mudblood, let alone the special one she had locked away in the dungeons. 

Draco drew in a deep breath and stepped further into the room. What he was about to say wouldn’t make Bellatrix happy but it had to be said. He knew Granger, and he knew Gryffindors. She would never give up Potter, not for anything. It wouldn’t matter what Bellatrix did to her or how much pain she felt, that damned Gryffindor bravery would never let her reveal anything. “It won’t work,” he said firmly, if not defingly. Bellatrix stopped and glared at him, cocking her head to the left. He held his position, staring straight ahead and not at his deranged aunt.

“What did you say to me, child?” 

He kept his composure and moved his head ever so slightly to look at her. The amount of madness in his aunt’s face could be frightening, but he’d long since learned that if he looked at her as a child he could hold onto his voice better. “I said, it won’t work.” Bella marched around the fallen chandelier and closer to her nephew. The shattered crystal crunched under her boots, heavy with her rage. 

“Careful now, we wouldn't want you to end up like your father.” She pointed her wand back at Lucius but did nothing. He flinched anyway. Draco couldn’t look at his father. He couldn’t look at Bellatrix, either. He’d always been taught, and always believed, that family was everything. You can depend on your family and your family can depend on you. They were Malfoys and they were Blacks. They were pureblood, and they protected each other. But here he was, standing in a sitting room of his childhood home, watching his father cower under the wand of his aunt. 

“If she didn’t give up the sword after what you’ve already done to her,” he started, trying to push the sound of Hermione’s screams and the smell of her blood burning out of his head , “she won’t give up the people she cares for.” 

Bellatrix examined the boy, tilting her head to the side as she tried to figure out what angle he was playing from. Narcissa came to her son’s defense. “He has a point, dear sister. However, there may be... other ways to gather the information we’re after.” 

All three Malfoys stared at Bellatrix, waiting for a response. The room was silent, save for the ticking of the centuries old grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional whimper from Lucius as he tried to breath without pain. Minutes of palpable tension passed before a jagged smile spread across her face. “Yes, perhaps there is.” She turned to face Narcissa, but still addressed Draco.

“Draco, be a good little boy and fetch us some water." Confused, he gave a short nod and turned to leave. He passed up the door to the dungeon and rounded the corner into the kitchens where there were two house elves mulling about. 

“You,” he commanded to the closest one, “I need a pitcher of water, now, and four glasses.” The elf whimpered and bowed low. “Hurry!” In a matter of moments the elf was presenting him a tray. 

"Veritaserum, Bella?" Narcissa asked as her son left the room.

"Nothing that harmless. It is only temporary, after all.” Bellatrix answered casually, then a tone of contempt took over her voice. “Besides, that pathetic Severus has yet to replenish our stores."

Draco re-entered the room carrying the tray. Bellatrix strolled over to him and poked at all but one cup, sending each one crashing to the hardwood below with a resounding crash. The glass glittered beneath her boots as she circled Draco. 

"Take this to the little bitch. Set it down and sit with her for a few minutes. Say nothing, then bring back what she doesn’t drink." Draco looked like he might question her, and Lucius definitely wanted to, but she yelled before either could. "Now!" 

**xxx**

_After Malfoy left, Hermione allowed herself to crumble._ There was no one but herself and her thoughts in the dungeon, no one to put on a brave face for. She sobbed and shivered and shook until she had nothing left. Her eyes were swollen and her throat was dry, gritty like sandpaper and raw from screaming. Her bones ached and her muscles burned under her skin. But when she finished, when she felt she had nothing left inside of her, she started to take big, deep breaths. Sharp pains shot through her chest and she whimpered at the possibility of a broken rib or a collapsed lung. She ignored the pain and stretched, doing her best to comb her fingers through her matted curls. She tore the sleeves from her shirt and did her best to clean her wounds, staunching the bleeding from some of the deeper cuts. A piece of glass, likely from the chandelier, had wedged itself into her calf. Not deep enough to cause serious damage, Hermione elected to remove it. She was still sore and tired and scared, but she was not yet broken. She wouldn’t let them break her.

She began to take stock of her situation. The room she was in was long and narrow with floors of stone and there was only one door, behind the iron gate. There was a small lantern hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, but there was no light. She could hear the creaking of people on the wooden floors above, and a small dripping noise from an unknown source. There were rusted shackles on one wall, though they looked as though they hadn’t been unused for centuries. Hermione ran her fingers along the stone walls and took in how damp and cold they felt, as if the rocks could cry with her. 

Taking stock of her mental situation was easier, as the only consolation she would afford herself was the knowledge that everyone else had escaped, that she was alone in these dungeons and her friends were safe somewhere else. This thought brought her peace, enough of it that she finally realised just how tired she was. Exhaustion set in and she closed her eyes for just a moment. 

When the wooden door at the top of the stairs creaked open, Hermione stood in an attempt to prepare herself. The sound of the heavy door scraping against the floor was sharp to her ears, an unwelcome break from the rhythmic dripping of water. She was awake, but barely. None of this felt real, this wasn’t supposed to be how the mission went. She knew there wasn’t much she could do against Bellatrix, Lucius, or anyone else who wanted to to torture her, which of course they were going to do, but she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. The footsteps grew closer, and as they approached she also heard a faint noise; like glass tapping against glass. She took a deep breath and resolved that she wasn’t going to tell them anything. No matter what they did to her, no matter how bad it got, she would not tell them anything. Hermione might be stuck in the dungeons of Malfoy sodding Manor, but she would not undo the all of the risks her friends had taken. 

She almost sighed with relief when she saw Malfoy standing behind the gate, his knuckles white as he held a tray carrying a pitcher of water. Even if he was there to torture her, at least it would be a familiar face. At least she could replay what it felt like to strike his face with her fist over and over again in her mind, a years old memory that could help her pretend she was fighting back. He opened the gate and locked it behind him. Torn between staying small and hurling insults at him, she stood against the far wall as he crossed the room and set the tray down a few feet in front of her. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small stool and took a seat across from her. She didn’t take her eyes from him, didn’t dare look to the water for fear of caving to her thirst. Her throat screamed as she subconsciously swallowed air. Her dry, cracking tongue ached for moisture, but there was no telling what was in the water. Veritaserum? Poison? Something even worse? But, she thought, it was water. Memories flashed through her mind. A quenching drink at the Burrow on a hot day after degnoming the yard with the boys, sitting in the grass with Ginny, drinking and laughing about the most trivial of things. Water.

Draco didn’t break his gaze, either. He didn’t say anything, per his Aunt Bella’s instructions, but wondered why she was keeping quiet. Did Granger really have no insults for him? No questions? No pleas for freedom or begs for mercy? Was she really just going to stare at him? She hadn’t even moved. Her arms were straight at her sides and her fists curled into balls. Her now bare shoulders were squared and her head locked in position. He couldn’t even recall seeing her blink. She looked ready for battle. 

Hermione’s muscles screamed and demanded to relax but she didn’t relent and instead only tensed up further. They shook in protest, her knees practically vibrating in fear. She hoped he hadn’t noticed. Her eyes throbbed, her lids just wanted to close, but she wouldn’t allow them even a blink. She couldn’t trust herself to open them again if she did. She kept staring. She watched Malfoy as he sat on his stool and leaned against the stone wall. His hands rested on his thighs, close to his hips. His shoulders sloped down, and his chest was relaxed. There were bags under his eyes and he looked tired. He almost even looked defeated.

After what he figured was about seven minutes, he stood. Hermione tensed even further, preparing herself for any kind of attack, but he only picked up the tray and headed for the door. Hermione waited until she heard the wooden door shut and lock, then just few more moments before she allowed herself to fall to the ground. She tried to lick her lips, but it only brought pain and the metallic taste of blood. Her stiff fingers went to the top of her shirt, where there were three small, decorative buttons. She tugged and pulled at one until it popped loose, then she put it in her mouth. It was something she read about once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. Sucking on a small button, or pebble, or something similar could cause salivation. It was information she never thought she would ever actually have to use. It would work for a short period of time, if only to give her some sense of control and hope, but much longer without water and she wouldn’t even have that saving grace.

**xxx**

_The next morning Draco watched the sunrise from the back corner of the gardens._ He’d tried to sleep through the night but as dawn neared he gave up and found himself walking the grounds. As much as he loved the home he lived in, he loved the gardens that surrounded it even more. His mother taught him to fly in East Gardens, where there was plenty of open space; and when he was a bit older, his father gave him mock dueling lessons in the Hedge Mazes. In the back, under the fruit trees and next to the fountains, is where he had his childhood lessons. He had learned to swim in the lake further south, and dueled grindylows while pretending they were Aurors. Now that Lord Voldemort occupied his home, the gardens were the only quiet places he could find. 

As the sun slowly crept above the horizon, it’s rosy hue inched closer and closer toward the manor. Just as the light touched the tops of the roofs Draco heard someone approaching. He straightened his spine, pulled his sleeping robes tighter, and looked up. He saw his mother approaching, still in her own pajamas and robe. Her hair was loose and her face was soft and sympathetic. She stopped short in front of him and held out her hand. 

“Come,” she said softly. Draco stood and let his mother take his arm. “We will get through this,” she began as they walked toward the house. “The same as we always have, the same as we always will.” She drew him into an embrace, and for a blissful, fleeting moment Draco was allowed to be a child again. 

It wasn’t long before the main floor of the house was bustling with people, some he knew, some he didn’t. For so much of his life, Malfoy Manor had been a refuge, a private place. But now, as the base of the Dark Lord, the number of strangers who came to pay their respects was staggering. It made him uncomfortable, though he would never think to call it that, to see so many unfamiliar faces in his home. Perhaps it wasn’t even his home anymore. By eight, Bellatrix had directed him back to the dungeon with another pitcher of water. He took a moment just outside of the door to the stairwell, steeling himself. 

**xxx**

_Hermione both wanted to sleep and didn’t._ She was beyond exhausted, more emotionally and physically drained than she had ever been before. She knew she would have to rest if she wanted to keep any semblance of sanity, but she also didn’t want to leave herself vulnerable if Malfoy decided to be less passive when he returned. If he returned. In order to combat that dichotomy, she’d decided to sleep sitting up against the wall. She hoped that by staying upright she would get some sleep, but not fall into such a deep one that it would leave her susceptible. Her solution proved successful when she bolted awake at the small sound of the iron handle on the door. She stood up, shook her head, and ran her hands over her face. She saw the thin figure descending the stairs and braced herself for whatever was to come. When he stepped out of the shadows and into the room she saw that he again had water. She licked her lips, unaware of the motion. She didn’t want to seem excited to see him, but the thought of water… Water which she wouldn’t allow herself to drink, anyway. Who knows what they had put into it?

He stepped further into the room and once again set the tray down in front of her. He didn't conjure a stool this time, instead he choose to stand across from her and engage in the staring contest she was bent on having. The leader of a wolf pack will never look away first, he thought. Hermione stood her ground, this was the only way she had to fight back, to prove she couldn’t be controlled. She would not lose her will to fight. She stared for as long as she could but she couldn't help herself, couldn't stop herself from looking to the pitcher of fresh, cold water. She watched as a drop of condensation slid effortlessly down the delicate curve of the glass and landed into a puddle at the base. She swallowed and resisted a flinch as her dry throat closed in on itself. She realised she was on the verge of caving and snapped her eyes back up to meet Malfoy's where she saw a hint of a smile hiding behind his lips. He thought she was going to give in. He thought he had won. That was the same face she had heard Harry lament, the subtle smirk Malfoy would make if he thought he was going to catch the snitch first. As she stared, any trace of a smile disappeared and he reached for the tray. The door shut behind him and she let out a breath. She really wasn't going to make it much longer. She knew the average person could only last three, possibly four days at best without water and here she was at day two…? Well, at least on the verge of giving in. She dug into her pocket, pulled out her button, then walked back to the wall. With her back flat against the stone she slid down to sit, letting her hands fall to her sides. Her left pinky knuckle hit a rock, leaving a little scrape. She had no energy to actually do anything about it, so she just started down at her hand and the rock. Her hand and the rock. The rock and her hand. The rock in her hand. 

Memories rushed toward the front of her mind, childhood memories of drawing brightly coloured suns and butterflies on the sidewalk with pastel-coloured chalk, then running out and using rocks. She scrambled to turn around and kneel at the wall. There were small rocks digging into her knees, as well as all along the base of the wall. They must have been pieces that had crumbled off over time, and she wondered how many people had been here just like she was now, a victim of the Malfoy family. She picked one up, pressed it into the wall with her fingertip, and pulled down, applying as much strength as she figured she could spare. A small white line appeared. She smiled and moved further into the corner, then closer to the floor, and drew another white line. Then another. Two white lines marking the two times Malfoy had visited her. She almost laughed with relief. If she could keep track of his visits, maybe she could keep some semblance of a schedule and that...that would help her to keep even a little bit of her sanity. Hermione loved control, and pretending she had some while she very clearly didn’t was a source of comfort. And she would take any comfort she could get.

**xxx**

_Draco returned the tray to the first house elf he saw, then found the nearest water closet._ He scrubbed at his hands and arms frantically. It had been almost a day since her muddy blood had touched his skin, but he swore he could still feel it; taunting him, contaminating him. After a time he felt satisfied and decided to spend a little more time in the gardens. After lunch was served, he considered heading back to his quarters, to retreat into a space he still felt was his own. He stopped short, however, when passing one of the many sitting rooms the manor held. He’d heard his aunt’s voice, and a familiar male voice that was not his father’s. It was a bit nasally and drawn out. Severus.The door was just barely cracked open, but he could still see his old Potions Master sitting across from his Aunt Bellatrix.

“You have the girl locked up, I presume?” Snape asked. There was a moment of silence before Bella responded. Draco could feel the resentment in the air and, when she responded, the indignation in her voice. There was no love or friendship of any kind between these two, that he knew. They barely tolerated each other.

“Do you lock up soiled tissue, Severus? Why would I keep a filthy thing like that? No, we’ve disposed of it.” 

Snape remained silent and his face remained untouched. Draco’s stomach turned on itself, not that he noticed. Granger was dead? She had been alive, even if barely, when he had seen her that morning. Suddenly, Snape’s eyes darted over toward the door and Draco remembered that he’d forgotten to shield his mind. He quickly pulled away and started to dash up to his bedroom, fighting the faint urge he had to confirm that she wasn’t in the dungeons anymore. However, he was stopped on the stairs by a house elf, whose name he wasn’t entirely sure he remembered. 

“Poddy was justs wondering, sir, what it is Master Malfoy is wantings to do with this?” The elf kept its eyes and head lowered but raised its hand toward him so as to present a small, purple, beaded bag. Frankly, it looked like it had seen better days; it was clearly missing beads in some places, there were threads hanging from the sides, and it was dotted with what could quite possibly be dragon’s blood. “It was belongings to the mudblood girl, sir. Poddy found it in the drawing room.” Draco just sneered and snatched the bag before pushing past the elf and continuing on to his room. Once on the other side of the door, Draco flung the bag to the floor, kicking it when it fell in his path. He fell back onto white, silk sheets and stared up at the canopy of curtains that surrounded him. This was a routine he had followed for years, staring into his ceiling for however long it took to clear his head, and yet something was different. It was the knot in his stomach, a knot which was quickly growing into a lead weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so what do you guys think? i really hope you like it! and i urge you to please leave kudos and feedback! tell me what you liked, what you didn't like, what your favorite parts were, come on let's chat! 
> 
> for a sneak peak of chapter two you can follow the tumblr for this fic at captive-fic.tumblr.com :)
> 
> also, the bolded words at the top are not my lines, they come straight from the book and are all jk rowlings!
> 
> thanks so much for reading guys!


	2. Two

_There was sand under his feet and salt in the air._ Ron heaved and pushed himself away from Harry. "We have to go back!" he screamed. Harry scrambled to his feet and tried to make his way back to Ron, struggling to walk in the sand.

"Ron I don't -"

"We have to go back! We can't just leave her there!" He put more distance between himself and Harry, but Harry persisted.

"I know that! Don't you think I know that?" He grabbed onto Ron's sleeve, pulling his friend around to face him. In the distance, he heard Luna calling out his name. Ron looked frantic. Luna grew closer.

"Harry!" Her voice sounded louder and more desperate. "Harry, look!" He looked to her and then to where she was pointing. In the sand, just to the left to where they had landed, was a small mass lying almost lifeless.

"No," he mumbled. He let go of Ron and rushed to Dobby. "Dobby!" he called, but there was no answer. He and Luna reached Dobby at the same time. He fell to his knees and took Dobby into his arms. "Dobby, no, no."

Dobby's hands were pressed on to the wound in his stomach and his eyes were half lidded. "Such a beautiful place it is, to be with friends. Dobby is happy to be with his friend, Harry Potter." The elf released his final breath, a faint smile upon his face. Harry pulled him into his chest as Luna shut her eyes. It wasn't fair! They got out, they were all supposed to get out! Dobby was supposed to live and Hermione was supposed to be with them!

"We can't just stand here!" Ron was still yelling, but Harry had had enough. Carefully, he handed Dobby over to Luna, then stood and marched over to Ron and grabbed him by the shoulders. Ron glared at Harry.

"Ron, there is nothing we can do right now! Okay? We need to regroup, and come up with a plan. But right now...right now Dobby is dead, Ron. He's dead and we need to bury him."

Anger was surging through Ron, along with fear and adrenaline. His emotions were a hurricane inside of his chest. He forced Harry's arms away, throwing him to the ground. "Who cares about a fucking house elf?!"

Harry clenched his fists as he stared up at his friend. He knew Ron was only speaking and acting out fear and anger, and that he didn't really mean it. "Hermione." He stated sternly. "Hermione cares."

****

XXX

_When Harry woke the next morning Ron was still sitting next to Dobby's grave._ After they buried him, Ron refused to leave. Harry didn't know if Ron had slept out there or stayed awake all night but neither would surprise him. When it became clear that Ron wasn't going to budge, they agreed to post-pone planning a rescue until after they'd slept.

"He's still out there," Bill said as Harry entered the kitchen. He and Fleur had been up for quite a while and already made breakfast. Harry sat down at the table and Fleur set a cup of tea in front of him.

"Thanks," he said, looking up at Fleur, then back to Bill. "He'll come in when he's ready."

It wasn't long before Luna and Dean entered the kitchen. Fleur made a tray for both Griphook and Ollivander and Luna offered to take it up to them. They did all of this relatively wordlessly as no one knew quite what to say. Harry finished his tea and a bit of toast before breaking the silence.

"We should start figuring out what to do," he suggested. The rest found a sudden interest in their cups and plates so Harry took the lead. "We could go tonight, ambush them, in and out."

"Yeah, I-I don't think they'd be expecting that, huh?" Dean responded.

"Actually that's probably just what they're expecting." Everyone turned to look into the living room and saw Ron standing in the doorway. There were heavy, dark bags under his eyes and his color looked drained. He shuffled into the kitchen and sat down across from Harry. "I've been thinking and... It kills me to say this but - I think we should wait."

"Wait?" Fleur asked. Ron nodded. She looked to Bill with concern, but he just laid a hand on her shoulder. It had been what he was thinking, too. Though he'd been afraid to say it, afraid of the irrational reaction his brother would most likely have, but to hear Ron come up with it himself made him proud.

"Yeah." Bill answered. "They know we'll want her back as soon as possible. They know we're beating ourselves up thinking about what they could be doing to her. They will be prepared for an immediate attack. Waiting will also gives us a chance to regroup, to make a plan. And we also have…" he stopped, looking toward his brother for a moment. Ron had been calm about waiting, would he be calm with what he was about to say? "We also have no idea if she's even still alive. So we wait."

All of Ron's muscled tensed and his anger started to boil inside of him. They left her there, outnumbered four to one, in that room alone. She wasn't even in prime fighting shape. To think of Hermione dead at the hands of… He took a few deep breaths. It was too early and he was too tired to fly off at the handle, so instead he just nodded curtly at his brother and turned to retreat upstairs and find a bed.

****

XXX

_Fleur was an undeniably good cook, but Bill was better._ While she had French cuisine perfected, Bill could whip up meat and potatoes fit enough for comforting a giant. Fleur could make excellent pastry, sublime sauces, and delicate souffles, but sometimes the soul craved something heartier than her delicate executions. Everyone, except for Griphook, was gathered around the kitchen table. The goblin had insisted on Luna delivering his meal to his room because as far as he was concerned, she was the only one who showed him any respect. With everyone seated for dinner, Bill began to portion out bowls full of steaming beef stew and send them floating about in the air to their intended recipient. Ginny, who'd quite stubbornly insisted on ending her holiday early and being at Shell Cottage with Harry and her brothers, sat on one side of the table between Ron and Harry; across from them were Luna, Dean, and Ollivander, and Fleur took one end of the table while the other stood empty, waiting for Bill.

"Smells just like Mum's," commented Ron, who'd slept through most of the day. He leaned over his bowl to take a whiff and closed his eyes as the fragrance hit his senses. It spoke to his mood that he was taking the time to savour the moment, as opposed to just shovelling the food into his mouth.

"It'll taste just like Mum's, too," Bill responded proudly, clapping a hand onto his brother's shoulder. Bill thought Ron felt shorter than usual. But then, maybe the stress of the war was wearing him down and starting to reflect on his posture. It pained him deeply to see his youngest brother so worn out. He was just two months into his eighteenth year, yet the war seemed to have aged him much beyond that. He should be in his final year at Hogwarts, not trying to defeat one of the darkest wizards there is. Bill thought about his own Seventh Year; head boy, Quidditch games, Hogsmeade trips with friends, late nights mucking about instead of studying. That's what Ron should be doing, but instead he's been forced in hiding and worrying about if one of his best friends, if the girl he loves, is alive or dead.

"I'll be the judge of that," Ron mumbled. Bill forced a small chuckle. At least Ron was still trying to keep some of his humor.

"It does smell wonderful, Bill," Luna added lightly, as her bowl gracefully set itself down in front of her. With her hands in her lap she leaned over the bowl and peered into it.

"Thank you, Luna." Bill set the last bowl in front of his empty seat, then sat down. Everyone but Ron had been politely waiting for him to sit before they ate. "All right, you lot, dig in."

Ron had plunged his spoon to the bottom of the stew and brought it up, displaying a mountain range of beef chunks and vegetables. He chewed slowly with his mouth slightly open and failed to notice the disapproval on Ginny's face. The atmosphere was completely different without words, with everyone focused on Bill's soul warming stew. Despite their verbal efforts to keep things light, they couldn't hide how solemn they all felt when the room fell quiet. There were no conversations, just the sounds of spoons hitting ceramic bowls and mouths lightly slurping up broth, while the fresh sea air and hearty stew scented the room.

"What do you think, Ron?" Bill asked, anticipation in his tone. While he was usually confident and independent, it meant more than he would admit to have his younger brother's approval. Ron, who was already about halfway through, nodded his head.

"It's not s'actly like Mum's," he started, his mouth still full of his last bite, "but it'll do."

"Gross, Ron!" Ginny scolded, "Finish your food before you talk, will you!"

Harry and Dean snickered a little, thinking of shared meals in the Great Hall, but Ron's face fell. Ginny's words had triggered a string of flashbacks, memories of Hermione chiding and swatting at him about speaking with his mouth full. He could even hear her voice in his ear, "Honestly, Ron!" He swallowed, but found himself unable to dislodge the lump in his throat. Suddenly, and quite uncharacteristically, he was no longer hungry. Ron pushed his bowl away and his chair back at the same time, employing perhaps a bit too much force, and stood to leave. As he left the room and went up the stairs the rest of the table exchanged glances. Ginny looked to Harry, a worried expression set in her features and dark smudges featuring prominently under her eyes.

"I - I didn't mean -" Harry placed a hand on her knee and gently squeezed, trying to offer as much solace as he could. It was easy for them to forget that Hermione was also Ginny's friend, after feeling as though they had had a lone claim on her company for so many years.

"It's okay," he assured, his voice gentle as he tried to soothe her.

Ron slammed the door behind him, then pressed his back against it and slid to the floor as his shaking knees buckled beneath him. His chest tightened and his throat began to burn, and before he could stop himself his shoulders were shaking and his eyes were stinging. A sob struggled and fought its way out of his throat and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. His mouth formed a horrible grimace and his tears mixed on his chin with his slobber. He slid further down on the floor, his feet grinding into the gritty sand that always seemed to be everywhere. He didn't cry when they got to Shell Beach. He didn't cry when Dobby died. He didn't cry the entire night he sat by the grave. He didn't cry that morning as they decided to leave her there for a week. He didn't even cry when Bill mentioned the notion that she might be dead. But the thought of never hearing her say his name again, never telling him off, never hearing that little sound that her throat made when she was irritated at something he'd done and then seeing her smile a little after, it all broke him. Hermione was gone. Hermione was gone and it was his fault. It was all his fault.

****

XXX

_Remus sat alone in his cramped and cluttered living room,_ a warm cup of tea steaming in his hand, and his very pregnant wife sound asleep in the other room. He was used to staying up late, well after Tonks had gone to bed, and reading to the sound of her snores. He didn't understand how that could be irritating to anyone. She was alive, she was safe, she was calm, and she was with him. He only wished he could share in that peace with her, instead of tossing and turning and eventually waking her up. Lycanthropy, however, had other plans; namely a tendency to affect one's sleep schedule. It was a rare quiet night and he'd just settled in with a book when he saw it through his window. A pale, silvery-blue doe was bounding through the trees and heading directly for him. It burst through the wall as if it were nothing, pranced around the precarious stacks of books that took up every possible surface, and stopped short just in front of him. It was magnificent, really, until Snape's voice came flooding out, hollow and void of emotion.

"Athena has fallen. Any rescue is now futile." The doe circled once then went running out the way it came. Remus fell back into his chair, his face slack with shock. So that was it. Hermione was dead. Hermione Granger, one of the brightest witches he'd ever met. Hermione, who'd known he was a werewolf and never said a word, who never even thought to treat him any different. She who'd stuck with Harry through everything, who risked it all in exchange for nothing. She was dead. Tears trickled down his cheeks, catching in his scars and diverting to his neck and shirt collar. He ran sweatered hands across his face and took a deep breath. He rubbed his knees and inhaled again, his breath still shaky. He looked back toward his bedroom, listening for that soft snore. It was too late, and he couldn't leave Tonks alone. He'd have to tell everyone in the morning.

****

XXX

_Ron's knees hit the floor with a deafening thud._ The sound echoed throughout his cranium and ripped out of his throat as a roar. His vision blurred, the world around him slowly ground to a stop and any noise sounded distant and muffled, as if he were underwater. He was only faintly aware of his sister next to him, clinging onto his shoulder and crying into his sleeve.

He blinked and it was dusk. What had seemingly just been a morning sun was now setting just outside of the window and he was alone in the living room, still resting on his knees. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace and a cup of tea on the coffee table, charmed to keep itself hot. Even with the fire warming his face everything seemed cold and distant. He rose from the floor and moved to the couch. Staring at the fire, he watched as the flames danced around the logs and up into the chimney. The fire was more alive than he was. He wanted the tea, but he didn't reach for it. He wanted to go to bed, but he didn't get up. He wanted to destroy everything around him to mirror how he felt inside, but he didn't lift a finger. He couldn't lift a finger.

"Oh, you've finally moved," came a quiet voice. He glanced to his left and saw Luna standing with her hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes were red and slightly puffy, but she smiled anyway and stepped closer. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" Ron just transferred his attention back to the flames. Luna took that as an invitation and sat down next to him, but left a cushion of space between them. She didn't say anything, because she knew there was nothing she could say to make him feel better. But she could sit there and just exist near him, to let him that he wasn't alone. Luna knew profound loss better than most people.

Less than ten minutes later Dean walked through the room. He stopped briefly before going into the kitchen for a glass of water, then returned and wordlessly took the seat between Luna and Ron. About five minutes passed when Ginny and Harry came into the house through the kitchen door and stopped in the living room when they saw their friends sitting silently on the couch. They looked to each other and without saying anything broke apart and rounded the sofa from either end. Harry sat on the floor between Luna and Dean, and Ginny sat between Dean and Ron. The five of them sat together well into the night, riding out the waves of tears and quiet sobs without ever speaking a word.

****

XXX

,i>Ginny was the first to wake the next morning, thanks in part to the savory scent of Fleur's cooking. She took a seat at the kitchen table and greeted her sister-in-law with a yawn. The morning light streamed in through the kitchen windows and striped across the table.

"'Ow is your neck?" Fleur asked, setting a cup of tea in front of Ginny. Fleur had found them there, asleep haphazardly around the living room, early that morning. Harry and Ginny were curled around one another on the floor, Ron had slid to the edge of the cushion and let his head fall back against the couch, and Luna and Dean had fallen asleep leaning against one another. She knew it couldn't have been comfortable for any of them to sleep like they did, all crumpled upon each other.

Ginny rubbed the nape of her neck, suddenly aware of how sore it was. "Not good, now that you mention it."

"I can help with that," Harry offered, shuffling in behind her. Ginny gave him a faint smile and moved her hair out of the way, granting him access to her aching neck and the knots in her shoulders. Dean was the next to wake up and make his way into the kitchen, taking a seat next to Ginny. They offered each other a weak smile. Were they in any other situation things between them might have been a bit more awkward, but she suspected that she wasn't the only one who had moved on and they had other things to occupy their minds with than a failed relationship. War tends to put things into perspective. Luna was next, skipping the table and instead helping Fleur with breakfast. She didn't say a word, which was categorically unlike Luna. Ginny had just decided to inquire as to whether or not she should go and wake up Ron when they heard the front door slam.

Ron left the front stoop and trudged through the sand and reeds. It was a fresh spring morning, and the cool sea air was stinging the tops of his cheeks, raw from tears. He hit the waterline and his knees gave out. Falling into the shoreline, he let the water lap at his knees. Surrender. Ron sobbed, letting the salty water from his eyes fall into that of the sea. Maybe they weren't so different after all, sorrows and the sea. They could ravage you, sweep you away in the blink of an eye. Things got lost in the sea, all the time. Ships, whole navies even, the city of Atlantis- if Professor Binns was to be believed. Maybe the ache in his heart could be taken by the sea too.

Back inside, Harry stared through the window at his best friend. Losing Hermione was hard, there was no arguing with that. It left a hole in his heart that reminded him of its presence with every breath he took; a constant, throbbing thought of her in the back of his mind. He hadn't trained himself to think of her as gone, not yet. But Harry, at least, was better equipped to deal with death than Ron was. He had lost people before, his parents, Sirius, Dobby, Moody, even Hedwig. He inhaled and a faintly spiced, floral scent flooded his senses.

"I'm so worried about him," Ginny said from behind him. He put his arm around her and pulled her in close and kissed the top of her head. The small contact brought him as much comfort as he hoped it would her.

"Me too, Gin." His gaze traversed the small distance in height between them when he looked down at her, watching her watch her brother. Ginny's brows pulled together and her forehead wrinkled with worry. He was also worried about her. She was on par with Ron when it came to dealing with death but she was a stubborn, stoic girl. She would mask her grief behind worry for Ron and hoped no one noticed. But Harry noticed. Harry would always notice. He spoke softly, just above a whisper, "Do you think we should go out there?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, I think he needs some time alone."

Before Harry could even nod in agreement, a dirty blonde streak flashed beside them. They looked back to the window to see Luna coming up on Ron and sitting next to him. He looked to her, and her to him, and she spoke. It looked as though Ron almost smiled as he nodded. Luna did smile, pat him on the shoulder, and stand up. As she walked back towards the house Ron stood and began collecting stones from the ground.

"Wh - what did you say to him?" Ginny asked as Luna entered the room. She couldn't fathom what would have pulled Ron out of his reverie. Luna shrugged.

"I only suggested a memorial service."

Ginny broke then. Tears fell from her eyes as she wrapped her arms around her friend. Luna smiled and hugged her back. There were tears forming behind Harry's eyes as well.

****

XXX

_Ron had gathered up all of the stones that he could._ Some were large, bigger than his hand, and others could fit in his palm. He refused to let any one help, and by dusk he'd managed to outline a large rectangle in the sand, creating a grave next to Dobby's. He found still a larger stone, a rock into which he began to hand carve her epitaph. For hours he painstakingly chiseled every letter of her first, middle, and last name into the stone. The letters were neat and straight. Hermione Jean Granger. He took a break then, but only because Harry had forced him. They ate lunch in the sunroom, off of the kitchen. It wasn't until he noticed the blood on his fork, that he finally looked at his hands. They were blistered and bleeding from the rocks, but he hadn't noticed. He didn't feel the discomfort, he had a task that pushed anything and everything else from his mind. Luna deployed a few healing charms to help with the wounds and Harry stalled him as long as possible, offering him seconds and refills in an attempt to get him to rest longer. But Ron had eventually had enough and was back outside, under the sun and sweating into the grooves he was carving out. He'd finished her birth date, September 19, 1979, and started on March - when Remus showed up at the back door.

"What is it he's doing?" He asked Luna, draping his coat over a kitchen chair.

"I believe he's carving out a headstone. We're going to have a memorial this evening."

Remus felt his breath leave him. A memorial service, for an eighteen year old girl. His fingers went to his chin, tapping as he thought. His memory jogged and he reached for his coat. "Tell Harry that I've a favour to ask of him when I return." Luna nodded and he turned on his heels, headed back towards his home. By the time Ron had the dates finished Remus was back, parchment scroll in hand.

"I was just about to bring him some water," Ginny said.

"I'll take it, if you don't mind. I've, uh, got something for him to see," he said, tapping the parchment on the table. Ginny nodded and handed off the water. Remus rounded to the back of the house where Ron sat in it's shadow, carving out still more letters. Remus surveyed the scene. Ron's hands were in terrible condition but the word Friend was almost complete. "Ron," Remus started softly. Ron looked up and Remus was not surprised by the bags under his eyes or the dirt on his face. "There's something I'd like to show you."

****

XXX

_They sent out invitations, coded messages via owl and patronus._ By sunset the yard was full. There were red heads abound as Mr and Mrs Weasley stood behind Ron, and Fred and George beside him. Ginny stood next to George with Harry and behind them was Remus. Tonks was much too pregnant to travel such a long distance, but she sent her love and support with Remus. Bill and Fleur were on the other side of Ron, and Dean and Luna on the other side of them. Ollivander leaned onto Kingsley for support as they stood slightly apart from everyone else, keeping a respectful distance. Griphook surprised them all by hobbling out to join them, stationing himself prominently and proudly at the front. It was an unspoken understanding that he wasn't there for himself, he was there for all of the non-wizards Hermione championed.

They all knew it was dangerous, gathering everyone up in one spot, but it was worth the risk to honour Hermione. Save for the multiple cries and soft sobs, they all stood quietly, looking down at the headstone.

_Hermione Jean Granger_

_September 19, 1979 - March 29, 1998_

_"Friendship & Bravery"_

Hermione's voice echoed in Harry's head, his mind replaying the moment she'd said those words to him. He smiled through his tears at the memory of his eleven-year-old self incredulously repeating them to Ron. It had been hard to believe she'd said something like that, something so wise for one so young, but he knew she meant them. He knew then, he knew now. Ginny sniffled next to him. Mrs. Weasley wrapped her arm around Ginny to rub her on the back. Harry reached for Ron's hand and gave it a supportive squeeze, trying to share strength between the two. Friendship and bravery, indeed. Even from beyond the grave, Hermione knew exactly what they needed from her.

After what he thought was an appropriate amount of time spent in silence, Remus stepped forward, keeping a melancholy pace, until he came to the border of stones Ron had used to outline the empty grave. He drew the parchment from his coat pocket, by now slightly damp with sea air and well worn from his earlier practice recitations. If he had been paying attention to anything other than the shaking of his knees, he might have heard a whisper or two from the crowd. For a teacher, Remus Lupin despised speaking in front of crowds. He cleared his throat.

"Hermione Granger," he began, his voice wavering at first but soon finding its full strength, "was perhaps the greatest witch any of us will ever meet. Certainly the greatest witch I will ever meet. We are all aware of her brilliance. Of her dedication to helping others despite the odds, of her undying love for her friends and family, and of the ultimate sacrifice she would give them." Thinking of the kind words of reassurance given to him by a very pregnant Dora, Remus' eyes scanned the crowd, searching their faces for encouragement. He found it in Luna, who was listening with her whole body, giving everything she had as she always did; in Fred, who let his tears fall freely, a bittersweet smile on his face; in Ginny, who stood with her back straight and her chin strong, bravely facing a world without her best friend; and in Harry, whose dry face presented a brave front, a front he would need to continue his journey. If they could find the strength to continue upon the difficult paths before them, so would he find the strength to share with them his words.

"Not so many years ago, though so much has changed, the remarkable woman we are celebrating today came to my office. I know now that this day, she had an inkling of my darkest secrets. But she, unlike so many others, would not pass judgement upon me. She did not come to me with accusations, she did not come to me with harsh words. Hermione Granger came to me out of a simple desire to discuss literature with another wizard familiar with the muggle universe, to feel briefly at home in the vastly different world she so thoroughly embraced.

"I'd like to read for you now, a poem which graces the gravesite of one of her most beloved writers, and to which I've applied a few artistic liberties. It is my hope that this would have brought the smile we all loved so dearly to her face." Remus paused again, allowing himself a moment to regulate his shaking breath. He began again with a new force to his speech, fortified by his purpose.

_"Near unto this place lyeth the spirit of Hermione Jean Granger_

_a woman so endowed by nature,_

_so improved by education, study, & travel,_

_so consummated by practice & experience ;_

_that joining the most peculiar graces of wit & learning_

_with singular penetration & strength of judgement_

_& exercising all these in the whole course of her life,_

_with an unalterable steadiness in the ways of virtue,_

_she became the ornament and example of her age;_

_beloved by good men, feared by bad, admired by all,_

_though imitated alas by few_

_& scarce fully paralleled by any,_

_but a tombstone can neither contain her character,_

_nor is marble necessary to transmit it to posterity."_

Remus folded the paper deliberately, tucking it gently into the safe place in his pocket. He turned, kissed two of his fingers, and touched them the headstone. He turned back around with tears running down his cheeks and as he stepped away from the grave a small but audible clap sounded. Luna had begun to applaud, but soon the others had joined in. George shot a round of golden sparks into the air, promptly joined by Ginny and Kingsley. Ron conjured a single, twittering yellow bird which soon found a perch upon the carved stone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you guys so much for reading!! and i really really encourage you to leave comments, they seriously make me so happy and i love getting them. i really hope you guys like the chapter. 
> 
> big big thanks to my betas, chiara & alexa and to my graphics creater ciara! you girls are the best. <33


	3. Three

Draco spent the night staring, still trying to keep his mind blank. He was using a technique that Severus had taught him when he was a young boy; looking back, now he could now see that it was a precursor to his Occlumency lessons with his favourite Professor. The ceiling of his bedroom really was quite beautiful, and perfect for getting lost in. It was painted dark, like the night sky, and speckled with filigree stars that were charmed to twinkle and form the constellations with which his family shared their names. The first one he’d learned when he was a child was his constellation, positioned right above his bed and framed perfectly by the metal canopy around it. Then he learned his aunt’s and his grandfather’s, cousins he couldn’t recall ever meeting. There were a few more, those of distant relatives, and he’d learned them all in time but there were two that always seemed to evade him. He’d point them out and ask who they were for, but they would fall out of formation before his mother could turn to look. 

 

As his mind started to wander, the uncomfortable thoughts began to creep back. His aunt had murdered someone in his home, a child really, someone who he had known. He had seen her learn to ride a broom, he had seen her petrified. She had been the first, though likely not the last, girl to hit him. But he didn’t care, there was no reason for him to care. He retrained his eyes on the ceiling, on his constellation, and tried to quell the internal noise again. He’d just gotten refocused when the bedroom door flew open, hitting the wall behind it with a loud crash. His aunt swept into the room. 

 

“Get up! Make yourself useful!” Her voice grated on his overworked nerves, but he didn’t take his gaze off of the ceiling. He heard a soft thud. “That little monster needs something a bit more fitting to wear.” The door slammed and he finally looked away from the charmed stars. Laying in a heap on his floor was a dirty sheet, cut and tied up like something a house elf might wear only sized, approximately, for a young woman. Draco was certain there was a bloodstain on a corner, and plenty of spider webs. It didn’t make any sense though, Granger was still alive? He hadn’t misunderstood Bella telling Severus about their captive’s fate, she was all too clear. He got off of his bed and picked up the sheet. It was filthy, almost as if his aunt had ordered the elves to run it through mud. She was still alive. It was a shame, he thought, because they would both be better off if she were dead.

**  
**

xxx

Hermione knew she needed to keep her mind busy. Everything she knew about how her brain worked told her that she needed to distract herself with something that seemed useful. And so, after marking Malfoy’s second visit deliberately into the shadow-obscured dungeon wall, she began to categorically recall everything she knew. She picked potions first, figuring that the listing nature of the subject would make an easy starting point. She’d gone over the Forgetfulness Potion, the Sleeping Draught, and Wiggenweld Potion, and four others of varying complexity. She went over each ingredient meticulously and then each step just as thoroughly, even going so far as to make the motions as necessary, waving her index finger through the musty air. If she missed an ingredient or a step, she would start over again from the very first one. She was just about to start on the Confusing Concoction when she heard the door slide open across the floor. She stood and looked down at her markings, making sure that they were well hidden in the darkness. The last thing she wanted was her captors knowing that she was keeping track of anything, or aware of anything. Hermione could not let them take anything else away from her, she wouldn’t put it past this particular group to try to remove anything that brought her even the most minimal comforts. The familiar thin shadow hit the iron gate before its owner did, and when Malfoy entered the room he dragged a white and brown cloth behind him. He tossed it to her feet. She stared down at it, confused. This wouldn’t be enough to keep her warm so far underground, if that is what he was trying to do.

 

“What are you waiting for? Put it on!” He commanded. She jumped at his voice. It was so loud, louder still after so long without any real sound. She slowly bent over and grabbed the cloth. It might have been fine linen once, but it was threadbare and torn in more places than not, crusted with dirt and Merlin knows what else. Holding it up, she could see that it looked exactly like the tea towels and pillowcases the house elves wore, only bigger. Is that what they were trying to tell her? That to the pure and mighty Malfoy family she was nothing more than a house elf? She looked to him and pulled her arms closer to her body in an attempt to make herself as small as she could. Between the mental stress of waiting for her painful, inevitable death and the lack of any nutrition, she was starting to lose weight. Hermione felt more like a skeleton than a person, let alone a witch of any power or pride. He made a noise in disgust, understanding her hesitation without her needing to say a word. “Believe me, it’s not something I want to see. But I’m no fool and I’m not turning my back to you.” 

 

She sighed, half whimper and half rattling exhale. Even if she could overpower him, which was unlikely, and get out of the dungeons, also unlikely, where would she go? Into the main house where Bellatrix no doubt was waiting, with her maniacal grin and unnerving stare? Yeah, right, brilliant plan, Granger. She inhaled and stood up tall. If she was going to do this, expose herself to Malfoy, then she was going to do it with as much dignity as she had. She started with her shirt, crossing her arms in front of her body and grabbing at the hem.

 

Draco stared straight ahead as she began to pull her shirt off of her body. He was trying to look past her, to not see her, but it didn’t work. It didn’t work because her arms and torso were marbled with purple, yellow, black, and green bruises. It didn’t work because her shirt stuck to the still tacky blood where his aunt had carved her status into her forearm, marking her forever as impure. It didn’t work because as she carefully began to pull off her pants he noticed still more bruises, and even more cuts. It didn’t work because even amidst all of the new wreckage on her body he still spotted a faint, white scar running the width of her stomach, risen above the rest of her smooth skin, and his thoughts immediately drifted toward possible stories behind it. Did she have an accident when she was younger? Did someone do something to her? Was it a funny story, or a sad one? He was only brought out of his thoughts when her clothes landed with a flop in front of him. He refocused his eyes to see her with her arms crossed and her eyes locked on him. Granger still looked every bit the Gryffindor lion. She had been beaten, as the colours blending on her body clearly proved, but she was not broken. He wondered how long she would stay that way. He didn’t want to see the day when she would break. Losing the feisty prey of the days when he had truly been innocent meant losing the tangible remains of his youth, and Draco wasn’t sure he was entirely prepared for that. His failure to kill Dumbledore had only solidified that belief. Stepping back from the clothes on the floor, he took out his wand, watching cautiously for any movement in the periphery of his vision. 

 

“Incendio,” he muttered, confident that she was stationary, and they lit up with a crackle and a hiss. 

 

Hermione turned her head, shielding her eyes from the light of the fire. It wasn’t especially bright, she knew, but after however long it had been without any real incandescence, she might as well have been staring directly at the sun. Spots of bright white and vibrant colours dotted her vision, obscuring details. Her mind must have bruises like her body now, too. She turned back when she heard the gate close, and saw that he was gone and the fire had been extinguished. What was left of her clothes, the only physical part of herself outside of the dungeon that she had left, laid in ashes before her. She looked down at herself. The sheet that covered her was thin and flimsy. It was covered in what looked like blood and dirt and...she didn’t want to think of what else. It was drafty and only just barely covered her knobby knees. Her mouth pursed, trying to resist an ugly scowl as she fought back the tears. She tried to take a few deep breaths but they were too shaky to help. She turned her head, to look back at her corner and began shuffling in the same direction. She knelt and added a third line to her tally marks. She carried herself to the other side of her cell, dragging her fingers through the ash that had been the sweater her father had picked out for her, and her favourite pair of trousers. Letting the grey dust slip through her fingers, she sighed in resignation.

 

"Confusing Concoction," she weakly mumbled to herself as she leaned against the wall, using it to support her through the weakness she felt. "Sneezewort, Scurvy Grass, Lovage..."

**  
**

xxx

She wasn't expecting another visit so soon. Hermione knew her sense of time was skewed but she was sure there couldn't have been but a few hours between watching her clothes go up in flames and watching Malfoy return with water. In truth it had been more than a few, but not by many.

 

Draco set the tray down in its usual spot and stepped back. He looked at Hermione, fully intent on staring her down again, but noticed that she hadn't even stood up. She was sitting cross-legged and half shrouded in the shadows. If she'd have been staring at him he might have seen her eyes but she wasn't. She was staring down, at the pitcher of water. It wasn’t a longing stare, or a wishful stare, but a tired stare. Draco stared at her much in the same way. It’s been nearly three days, Draco thought, she has to be getting dehydrated by now. She had to know that there was nothing in the water. She had to know that Aunt Bella wouldn’t want to kill her that easily. So how, then, could she be so stubborn? After a few minutes, knowing that even though she wasn’t initiating a standoff against him she still wasn’t going to take the water, he decided to disobey his aunt and say something to the girl.

 

“Do you really think they’re coming for you, Granger?,” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady and commanding. “Do you really think they'd risk everything, just for you? Do you honestly believe you’re worth that much of a risk?” Her head snapped up and her eyes locked with his, briefly catching the light and giving her gaze a bit of an otherworldly feel. Draco squared his shoulders and poised his hand at his wand as she stood and slowly grew closer to him. Her face was twisted with anger and hatred. He barely had time to register the fact that it was a look of hers he’d never seen before something warm and wet hit him square on the forehead and began to slide down his face. Shocked, he used his sleeve to wipe his face clean. She had spit on him. She had spit on him. He quickly pulled his wand from his pocket and within seconds she was flying back towards the stone wall. He left her in a heap on the floor and sent a house elf in for the water he'd left behind. Safe in his bedroom, he stripped down and prepared for one of the most heated showers he would ever take. 

 

Hermione would have cried had she not been so dehydrated. Instead her throat burned and her chest convulsed. She knew using what little liquids she did have to spit in Malfoy’s face wasn’t the best idea, but she’d been so angry that she hadn’t really thought it through. This is it, she thought, this is how I die. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself, then moved to the corner to add another mark to the wall. 

**  
**

xxx

That morning found Draco standing outside of the dungeon holding yet another tray of water. He steeled his jaw and gripped the silver platter tight. He entered the chamber and saw her once again huddled in the corner. He set the tray down, closer to her this time than any before, and stepped back. She didn’t even look toward it, instead she kept her eyes locked to the floor. Draco was losing his patience with her. How obstinate can she be? She was going to die of dehydration soon. Granger needed to drink something, and Draco was almost afraid he would have to be the one to make her do it.

 

After a more than a few moments of silence he stepped closer to her. “Drink,” he said. She finally looked to him, staring at him defiantly. “Drink!” he commanded louder. He reached his hand into his coat, pulled out his wand, and brandished it against her. He hoped somewhere in the back of his mind that the threat of action would be enough to compel her to respond.

 

Hermione quickly got to her feet, not taking her eyes off of him. She stared down the length of his wand, which was less than six inches from her face. She could see his chest heaving in anger and his wrist make a slight twist.

 

“Imperio,” he growled through his teeth. 

 

A haze of obliviousness washed over Hermione and a smile spread across her face. She slowly kneeled to the ground and reached for the pitcher of water. She grabbed the cup with her free hand and poured herself a glass of the most refreshing looking water she’d ever seen. There was a calm gentleness radiating off of her every movement. Draco’s breathing began to normalise as he watched her serene movements. She gracefully drank one glass of water then poured a second. As she began to drink a third the fog in her mind started to clear and she came too, choking on the water in her throat. She coughed and pointedly spit the water into his face before throwing the glass against the wall and kicking the pitcher after it. Draco used a drying spell on his face, sneering and almost snarling at her the whole time. Without looking from her, he wordlessly flicked his wand and the bits of shattered glass flew around the room to come together again and form the objects they once were. With another quick wrist movement he sent it back upstairs. He quickly closed the space that separated them and towered over her. There was a fear in her chest but she wouldn’t show it. After a few very long seconds Draco pulled himself away and marched back up the stairs. 

 

Hermione flinched as the door slammed, then instinctively swallowed. Her throat was only slightly less dry than before, but she’d be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t a little grateful for the relief. The relief didn’t last long though, as the sinking realization that Draco Malfoy had been inside of her mind set in. Her stomach threatened to betray her and she swallowed to keep the bile at bay. Shuddering, she turned back to her corner and added another line, cutting it diagonally across the first four. She sighed. She didn’t feel like she’d been poisoned, and if there’d be veritaserum in the water then Malfoy had defeated the purpose of it by leaving so soon after. Had it really been just water? And if it was, why had he made her drink? Why not just let her die? She shuddered as a thought sunk in. They want me alive because dead things don’t cry out in pain. 

**  
**

xxx

There were five tally marks on the wall. Five visits, but had it been five days? It didn't feel like five days. To Hermione it felt a lot longer than that. A week, maybe even two. When there's nothing to do, nothing to fill up the passing minutes or hours, a day can feel stretched and pulled. And when there is no sun, no moon, to mark the passing of time, it can feel even longer.

 

Some time later, although she had no way of judging just how long, Hermione's eyes slid shut and her head fell to her shoulder. She could no longer resist the the temptation of sleep. Her dreams, her nightmares, came quickly and were violent and vivid. The Order falling; Voldemort in complete control of everything; her parents hunted down and murdered; her friends kept locked up just for torture; Harry dead; dementors running free; muggles being rounded up like cattle for the slaughter or kept as slave labor; flashes of bright green; blood covering everything; screams, horrifying, gut wrenching screams coming from every direction - 

 

A loud crash, metal on metal, sounded and she was jarred from her sleep. For a brief, fleeting moment she’d forgotten where she was or how she’d gotten there. Fear overtook her as she pushed herself further on to the wall, some part of her hoping she should just melt into it. As a familiar tall, sallow figure stepped out of the shadows it all came flooding back to her; and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or more terrified. She began trying to slow her heart as she watched him set the tray down and step back. For the first time since the first visit he conjured a stool and sat down. She looked from him to the tray. There was water, same as always, but there were also two slices of bread sitting next to the glass. 

 

She averted her eyes, focusing instead on the stone floor. She’d been able to ignore her hunger for this long, with her thirst taking priority, but when her eyes landed on the bread her stomach cried out for it. She felt like she may vomit, as if her stomach were trying to crawl up her chest and out of her throat just to get to the food. She kept her gaze on the floor, willing her stomach to calm, but it wasn’t working. 

 

She heard a sigh from the stool. “Eat,” Malfoy commanded, his voice thick and low. When she made no move for the food he reached for his wand. “We both know I can make you.” 

 

Hermione stood, unwilling to let him enter her mind again, and walked to the tray. The bread was stale, of course, and she ate it nibble by nibble, but it was all she could do to hold in any noises of satisfaction that arose in the back of her throat. She was chewing food, real actual food and there was a glass of water just sitting there, waiting for her. She reached for the water to wash down the bread. She knew what this food meant, she knew why they were keeping her alive. But if she was going to get through this with any part of her mind intact, she would have compartmentalise her thoughts and experiences. In her mind, she was having tea and Hagrid’s rock cakes with Ron and Harry. Those cakes were awful, but she’d give anything just to be back in Hagrid’s hut gnawing at one.

 

She hadn’t quite finished the bread when Malfoy stood, his abrupt movements startling her. She moved back and he grabbed the tray before heading back toward the main house. She wanted to spit out the last small piece, as still yet another act of defiance, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She marked his sixth visit on the wall and retreated back into her mind. She’d given up, at least temporarily, trying to go over potions and spells. While it was a good idea at first, she’d soon realised that failing to remember scholastic subjects over and over again only stressed her out further. So instead she took to trying to figure out what her earliest memory was. She started with her last happy memory and worked backwards from there.

 

She reached all the way back to her first time at Diagon Alley. Hogwarts had sent a very nice witch, with warm eyes and a slightly crooked smile, to assist her family in exchanging their currency and finding everything they needed. She'd seen so many wonderful things, things that only solidified magic for her. She could almost see it stretching out before her, the shops building themselves with her imagination. Eeylops’ with all of the animals curiously watching her; Amanuensis' Quill shop with all of its beautifully coloured quills; the gorgeous interior of Gringotts, and, of course, Flourish and Blotts. That shop - she could have spent years in the shop. So many books full of so much new information. At eleven years old it's all she could have ever asked for. 

 

The tall and crooked bookshelves began to slowly crumble around her as the dungeon door slowly slid open. They shattered as she realised that the footsteps echoing down the stairs were not Draco's. They were not the footsteps of a fine dress show, but those of a heeled boot. They were closer together, a woman's gait. The fear that began to grow in her chest fully took control of her body as a higher and mad laugh confirmed her thoughts. 

**  
**

xxx

Draco stood outside of the dungeon door, cursing himself. Next to him, a house elf stood to collect the tray from him. He handed it off and started back towards his bedroom. What was he doing? What did he care if she ate or not? He was only supposed to give her water. Why was - he was stopped mid step by a mass of billowing black robes. Severus looked down his nose and before Draco could react he was inside of his mind. Within a few seconds Draco pushed him out but it was too late. Severus had seen what he'd just done to Hermione. Draco's face twisted with the fear that this man he trusted was going to tell his aunt and Severus’ frown didn't put him at any ease.

 

"Your secret is safe, boy" he said, his voice sharp and deliberate. Something was strange about the man’s tone, more like the harsh professor and less like the godfather he was to Draco outside of Hogwarts. He pushed past Draco and continued down the hallway. His mind reeled as he tried to process the information he’d just pulled from the boy’s head. The Granger girl was alive - and Draco was...Was he helping her? The flash he’d seen; the two of them, the dark dungeon, the Imperius Curse. Another thought came to the front of his mind; the last time he’d gleaned into Draco’s head, when they both thought the girl was dead. There was a flash of pain, just before the shock. Things were starting to shift, that much was clear and Severus Snape knew all too well, only pain would come from this. As he left the house through the kitchen doors he changed tracks. He’d deal with Draco later, after he figured out what to do with the other bit of information he’d just gathered. Hermione was alive and The Order would most definitely want to know. He stopped short, just before crossing the anti-apparition barrier. He couldn’t tell them. Surely Bellatrix had told others of her ‘murder’ while telling no one else that she was actually alive. If he relayed the news to The Order, she would know there was a mole in the house and she would look straight to him. He sighed, stepped out of the charm, and disapparated.

 

Draco hurried off to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Was Severus really going to keep his secret? Did Severus regularly keep secrets from Bellatrix? Is that why she told him that Hermione was dead? What other secrets was he keeping? Who else's secrets was he keeping? His breathing grew shallow and rapid the longer he thought about it. Who else was lying? He'd thought for so long that he was trusted, was given all of the correct information - but if Severus was lying and keeping secrets, who else was? His parents? His aunt is obviously lying but what was the extent? He cast a silencing charm on his room seconds before releasing the roar that had been building in his chest. It felt like it was ripping his vocal chords to ribbons. They had spent so long building this perfect charade, and now the illusion of perfection and control was starting to slip between his fingers. The cracks in his life were starting to show, starting to spiral out from the center, splintering bit by bit. He inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm his rage. His eyes were no longer threatening tears but he was still shaking. He removed the charm as he looked toward his bedside table. He had a Sleeping Draught in the top drawer, something his mother brewed for him. He removed the small, delicate bottle and placed it on top of the table and sat on his bed. He stared at it. How much could he take? A small swallow would put him out for a few hours and a gulp would get him through the night. What about two gulps? Three? How many days would half a bottle do him for? What would happen if he took the whole thing? 

 

He took a gulp, and then just a little more. Within minutes he was asleep, he didn’t even bother getting under his sheets. He dreams were dark and blurred. Shadows reached out for him from the walls of hallways that never ended. Whispers hissed at him from every angle and the floor vanished, sending him plummeting into the void. A scream started faintly at first, but grew until his ears bled, until he too was screaming, screaming, falling, flailing - he woke with a jolt, with sweat beading on his forehead. But the screaming was still there. It wasn’t part of the dream, the screams were coming from the house, from three floors below him in the dungeons, from Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading guys! please feel free to leave reviews and kudos <3
> 
> and, chapter four will be up on nov 7th!


	4. Four

_After the memorial service, before anyone had even left, Ron slipped off to one of the empty bedrooms of Shell Cottage._ He had been tired before, of course. Days spent degnoming the garden, quidditch matches that seemed to drag on forever, and late nights of completing last-minute potions essays. But this was exhaustion. This was beyond exhaustion. This was needing escape. This was needing to be alone with his thoughts of the woman who had changed his life and left it so quickly. This was needing to figure out how he was supposed to go on when someone who was always there, in his life every day for years, is just suddenly gone. His whole world had been thrown off balance, and he had to let go of the witch he loved. Yes, loved. He hoped, at least, to see her every night in his dreams. When he thought of her, maybe one day he would smile in remembrance, but for now all he wanted was his sorrows.

Ron tried to think of the last time someone he had known had passed away, tried to find something to compare this feeling to. There was Cedric, but of course he hadn't really known him all that well. His uncles had died in the first war, but that was before he had even been born. Losing his Headmaster was tragic, but couldn’t quite compare to the loss of the person he had grown up with. Hermione had taught him so many things, about himself and about others, about looking after those who weren’t given the power to look after themselves. She’d taught him things he hadn't even noticed at the time, but that he now saw everywhere. He just needed to board himself up, pull the blankets over his head, and try not to think about any of that. For someone who was usually surrounded by friends and family, Ron needed to be alone. He needed to be with nothing but thoughts and memories, to let those feelings consume him before he lost those as well. 

“Ron? Can I bring you anything? Some tea, maybe?” He recognised Luna’s voice through the bedroom door. He had only just come here, how had she found him so quickly? 

There was a noticeable pause before she heard him reply.“I’m fine, Luna,” he managed, irritable. It took all the strength Ron had left to stop himself from lashing out at her. He was certain she was going to ask for confirmation, but he cut her off before she could form the first word. “Luna, just go. Leave me be.” Luna understood, though. He didn’t need to use any more words than he had to explain the space he needed to process his grief. 

Luna knew. She remembered, how close her own loss felt. Ron’s grating tone was not intentional, surely, just a product of his struggle. Luna, of course, had seen him look at Hermione. She knew what so many others did not, she had a way of seeing things that not many people shared, mainly because she actually took the time to look at all. Retreating to the kitchen, she found herself in the company of people who suffered in an entirely different way from the silent man curled up on the musty mattress above.

Downstairs, the rest of the attendees, save for Ollivander and Griphook, sat gathered around the kitchen table, a newly opened bottle of firewhiskey resting in the middle. After catching up a bit, Kingsley took his leave, followed not long after by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. As their numbers dwindled, they began to talk more of Hermione in attempt to celebrate her life rather than mourn her death. By midnight, Bill and Fleur had retreated solemnly to their room and the twins had long returned to the apartment they shared above Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. This left Remus, Ginny, Harry, Luna, and Dean. 

Remus reached across the table to pour a little bit of whiskey into Harry’s glass, a meaningful sorrow in his eyes. “I do believe it’s your turn,” he said. 

Harry exhaled, thinking as he picked up his glass. “Oh...flying! She hated flying!” Ginny, who’d just taken a sip of her own, swallowed hard as she sat up, stifling a cough. Harry patted her on the back. “You all right?”

Ginny nodded, laughing a little at herself. “I’m fine. It’s just - she was gonna learn to fly. Really! She wanted me to teach her, wanted to surprise you lot. It was supposed to be our secret, but I suppose she would forgive me for telling you now.”

“Oh Merlin!” Luna exclaimed. Ginny continued.

“I mean, we sort of started a bit, back at the Burrow, but she could only hover a few feet off the ground before she got too scared, lost control. She meant it though, she really wanted to learn.” 

“But could you imagine Ron’s face if she went whizzing by?” Dean added. They were quiet for a moment, sad smiles on their faces as they imagined their lost friend soaring above them.

“She was writing, you know. A revised edition of Hogwarts, A History. She wanted the next generation to know even more about the school, things that we found out together.” Luna spoke, her eyes focussed on the weathered kitchen table. “I was helping her with a few sections about the forest.” 

Remus’ smile reached his eyes. Revising Hogwarts, A History, if anyone could do it, she could. They spent more than another hour talking, both about Hermione and other happy memories, before they were interrupted by a galloping silver wolf which burst through the kitchen wall. From it came Tonks’ voice, yelling for Remus to come home immediately. 

“It’s time!” She bellowed. Panic overtook Remus’ eyes as she stood, knocking his chair over. 

“It’s time - it-it’s time,” he said, patting himself down. “My wand - oh, it’s happening, the baby - my - my wand! Where -” 

Dean cut him off by reaching over the table and picking his wand up. It had been sitting there, in front of him for hours. “Calm down, you won’t do her any good panicking like this.” Dean stood and walked over to place a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me - breathe. You can’t apparate like this, either.”

Remus took a few deep breaths. “I’m not - I’m not ready.” Dean spun Remus around and looked him square in the eyes. 

“And you never will be. But you will do your best, and you will be an amazing father.” Remus searched the young man’s face. 

“Thank you, Dean. Truly.” Remus spun to face Harry and smiled. “You’ll be the godfather?” 

Harry choked on his drink and stammered. “A -wh -” Ginny had to elbow him. “Of course! I - yes, of course!” Remus smiled wider and nodded, then disapparated with barely a snap. Harry fell limp in his seat, repeating what had just happened in his head. 

Luna looked quizzically toward Dean. “How’d you know to say all of that?”

Dean shrugged as he sat back down. "I've got four younger siblings, I've been through my share of baby panics." 

As the next few days passed, everyone jumped at the chance to distract themselves with the new baby. Edward Remus Lupin was all anyone wanted to talk about, though no one called him anything but Teddy. Remus and Tonks sent multiple daily updates.

_“His hair is blue!”_

_“Now he’s changed it to pink!”_

_“He’s been sleeping for two hours now, Tonks has followed suit.”_

_“We can’t wait for you all to see him.” ___

__Molly fretted over how big to make his bonnets while Harry and Ginny tried to figure out exactly what a Godfather’s duties entailed. The twins placed small bets with each other over how long it would take him to gain complete control over his metamorphmagus powers and Luna was trying to write a lullaby for him. It seemed to be the only thing everyone was talking about. Everyone except Ron._ _

__Of course he was happy for Remus and Tonks, and of course he wished them well. He even put a few knuts on Teddy learning to control his skill by age five (what with Tonks being there to help him). This just didn’t seem like the right environment for a child, war and all. It was hard to welcome a new life when he wasn’t done saying goodbye; but as the days wore on, he began to feel like they were forgetting about Hermione._ _

__"Ron," Luna said. The two of them were washing the after-dinner dishes. It had been a special meal, as it was the first time Remus and Tonks brought Teddy over, the first time any of them saw him. "Do you know a word that rhymes with Nargles? It's for my song, for Teddy."_ _

__The plate in Ron's hands crashed into the sink, mercifully escaping shattering. "Would you stop with the bloody song already! He's a baby, he's not going to know or even care!"_ _

__Remus, who'd just stepped in to offer to help them, cleared his throat. "Ronald. Outside. Now." There was a commanding growl in his voice that neither one of them had ever heard before, even when he was their Professor. Slightly afraid but mostly annoyed, Ron marched through the kitchen door with Remus on his heels. As soon as they were in the shadows of the house Remus slammed a hand on to Ron's shoulder and spun him around. Looking into his scarred and darkened face, Ron saw Remus in way he never had. His face was stern and angry though very much controlled._ _

__"Do you think you're the only one mourning? Do you really think that you're the only one who's heart is aching, who's trying to keep it together?" Remus had his hands twisted into Ron's collar. "We are all suffering and you have no right to lash out of any of us; least of all Luna, who's done nothing but try to help you." Remus recognised the fear in Ron's eyes and realised how angry he'd gotten. He let go of Ron's shirt and instead placed an open palm over the younger man’s heart and calmed his words. "We are all hurting in very different ways, but that doesn't mean we aren't hurting. We are choosing to relish in a new birth, to give ourselves a respite from the heartbreak. That doesn't mean we've forgotten, that we will ever forget."_ _

__The door behind them opened and footsteps approached. "Oh, 'zer you are!" Fleur exclaimed. "'Arry, 'e is looking for you...in ze living room." Noting the situation she'd walked in on, she left without waiting for a response. Remus looked to Ron._ _

__"Are we okay?" Ron nodded and kept his head down. Remus pulled him into a hug before leading him toward the door. In the kitchen, Luna had just put away the last plate._ _

__"Luna I -" Ron started, Luna stepped closer._ _

__"It's okay."_ _

__"No, it's not."_ _

__"But it is now." Ron saw the resolve in her face and decided not to push it any further, instead giving Luna an apologetic hug. Satisfied that he’d gotten through to Ron, Remus ducked off into the living room where Harry waited. Ron went as well, not wanting to miss anything, and Luna followed him._ _

__The cozy living room, lit by the flickering fireplace, was full of harsh, hushed whispers that fell silent when the last few stragglers entered. Tonks sat nursing Teddy in one of the oversized armchairs and Griphook took up the other, while Dean rested on the raised hearth of the fireplace. Bill stood in the corner, Fleur sat in a high back dining chair beside him, Ollivander and Ginny took up either end of the sofa, and Harry stood by the doorway. Luna squeezed past Ron and Remus and sat next to Ginny._ _

__"You're both here, good." Harry started._ _

__"What's this about?" Ron asked, more defensively than he should have. Remus placed a light hand on his shoulder and felt the boy relax._ _

__"Well...I figured since you two were here,” he motioned to Remus and Tonks, “we would start planning our next move." Harry paused to take in their reactions. Remus was unphased but Ron was tense. Harry turned his attention to his best friend. "I know a lot has happened... But we can't slack up, we can’t lose our advantage. Dumbledore wouldn’t want us to sit around and waste time."_ _

__Ron sighed. Just because he knew Harry was right didn't mean he liked it. Continuing on, though...without Hermione? They were meant to be in this together, this was meant to be an mission for three. Ron felt a hand wrap around his and looked down. Ginny was looking up at him, concern colouring her features. She stood, her head rising to just above his shoulders, and took both of his hands._ _

__“This is what she would have wanted. You know that, don’t you?” Ron averted his eyes, staring the small pile of wands on the coffee table. Ginny moved his head back. “You do know that. I know you do. You know she’d actually be a bit angry that we’ve taken so long.” Ginny smiled, coaxing a barely there smile from Ron. The back of his eyes were burning. Ginny was right, of course she was, they all were. Hermione would have already dragged him headfirst back into the fight, and so that’s how he would go. Headfirst. He pushed back his tears, stiffened his jaw, and nodded._ _

__“Right. So, whose wands do we have?” He asked, nodding towards the pile of wood on the table. Ollivander cleared his throat and began to slowly list out the names._ _

__“Bellatrix Lestrange, Narcissa Malfoy, Peter Pettigrew -”_ _

__“And Scabior, that snatcher.” Ron finished, remembering how they got them all in the first place._ _

__“And what, may I ask, are we going to do with them?” Remus questioned. As Harry answered, Remus crossed the room to sit on the arm of his wife’s chair._ _

__“Well, we’ve got some who need wands,” Harry glanced around to Luna and Dean. “but we might have a need for one in particular.”_ _

__“Griphook has told us about something in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts that might be useful,” Bill said._ _

__“Not that you’ll never make it in,” Griphook mumbled, but Bill ignored him._ _

__“We’ve a strand of her hair, found wrapped around the hilt of her knife. We won’t be able to delude security forever, but maybe just long enough”_ _

__“You aren’t suggesting -” Tonks began, adjusting Teddy. Ginny cut her off._ _

__“Polyjuice. Into Bellatrix, to get into the vault. We have her wand, her knife, her hair…”_ _

__“Okay, but who’s going to do it?” Ron asked. Harry and Ginny averted their eyes from the other, from Ron. “No -” he started. “No! She will not - you will not!” He wasn’t going to risk losing both Harry and Ginny in one go, not so soon after losing Hermione._ _

“Who are you to tell me what I will and will not do?” Ginny demanded. Ron opened his mouth, but Harry stopped him. 

__“Look nothing’s settled yet, okay?” Harry was only trying to placate Ron. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop Ginny, not if it was something she’d set her mind too. He just didn’t need everyone fighting. “It will take a month to brew the Polyjuice, we have plenty of time to sort it out.”_ _

__“Who’s going to do that then, brew it?” Dean asked slowly, knowing full well he wasn’t anywhere near the best with potions. A few eyes went to Harry, who held his hands up._ _

__“I was only reading from a book, which I no longer have. And it wasn’t just Ron and me.”_ _

__Bill looked down to Fleur, who’d been listening quietly the whole time. “Honey,” he urged. She shook her head._ _

__“I am skilled at zee ‘ealing potions, yes. Of zee others, I am not so sure.”_ _

__“You’re more than skilled, you’re amazing. And I think you’re our best option - I know you can do this.” Fleur steeled herself and looked to the others._ _

__“If Bill ‘as faith in me, zen I ‘ave faith in me.”_ _

__“Okay then,” Harry stepped forward, commanding the attention of the room. “Fleur will make the potion, those who need a wand will take one; and Bill, Griphook - tomorrow we start planning our way into Gringotts.”_ _

__Griphook, annoyed that he even had to be apart of this, jumped down from the chair. “And you better make good on our deal -”_ _

__“You’ll get your damn sword.” Harry snapped. Leaving Griphook to mumble his way back to his room, Harry looked to the others, recognizing doubt and hesitation in their eyes. “We can do this. We have to.”_ _

__****_ _

xxx

xxx

_Breakfast the next morning was an especially cold affair._ Draco had always relished breakfast with his family, it was secretly his favourite part of being home from Hogwarts. There was a beauty in the consistency, in knowing that his mother would add the same amount of sugar to her tea and his father would wear the same worn silk house robe. They sat at the smaller table, in the sunroom off of the kitchen; and had fruit, and toast with jam. Conversation was kept to a minimum, and after ensuring they were settled in, the house elves would leave them be. Draco, trying to think as an outsider, would have imagined that the family would have relaxed most during these quiet mornings. There was relaxation, of course, but in their own way. There was security in routine, there was order, there was hierarchy. Lucius took his food first, poured his tea and then his heir’s. Narcissa would smile and thank her husband as he poured her drink. His father commented on the idiocracy of the happenings in the Daily Prophet while his mother tutted at him that he should enjoy a moment of his morning without negativity, keeping it away from their table. His parents fretted over him and made sure he had whatever he needed from them for the day. Breakfast used to be something his missed while he was at school. But after the Dark Lord’s occupation, they resorted to keeping up appearances even on the earliest of mornings. There may be a contingent of Death Eaters in their home, and somewhere the Dark Lord received his twisted supplicants, but the sanctity of tradition must be upheld. But that morning, the morning after the night of screams, Bellatrix insisted on a proper breakfast. They sat in the formal dining room and ate off of their best china. The house elves prepared a full English breakfast and served it in their cleanest tea towels. Bellatrix sat at one head of the table, while everyone else left the other empty. Narcissa sat to Bellatrix’s right while Draco sat to her left. His father sat next to him and a few others filled out the table a little further down. She had turned their home into her own, and Draco was not surprised by how at ease she was, commanding house elves that were not hers to command. This was her territory now, not theirs.

“I do hope everyone slept well last night?” Bellatrix commented, with a saccharine tone in her voice that made Draco’s entire meal seem unappetizing. “I, personally, didn’t get to bed until late into the night, but I slept so soundly that I believe it made up for it!”

Nobody responded. Draco was sure that everyone who’d been in the manor had heard Granger screaming. What made it all worse to him, was Bella’s unusually chipper mood. To have the capacity to hurt another human being was one thing, to take such pleasure from it was perhaps too much. Draco poked at his eggs before looking up to meet his mother's gaze. She'd heard someone tortured in her home too, and she was shaken. Her home had always been her haven, a place to hide from the suffocating expectations of everyone else in her world. 

"What's the matter with you, boy?" Bellatrix chided. “You haven't touched your meal!" 

Draco avoided eye contact with his aunt as he responded, trying to keep his tone balanced and unrevealing. "I've not had much of an appetite lately."

"Yes, you are looking a bit peaky. No matter, I'm sure I know of someone who deserves your dregs." Draco’s stomach twisted upon itself. Bellatrix clapped her hand on the table, sending vibrations through the solid wood. His father jumped slightly at the sound. “Where are those blasted elves!" Seconds later the smallest elf they had shuffled into the room, keeping his head bowed so as not to inadvertently offend Madam Lestrange. "Hurry it up! Take this plate to the dungeons for Master Malfoy!" As the elf took the plate and glass of juice from the table, Bellatrix shoved Draco's shoulder. "Well, don't keep her waiting. I'm sure she's positively famished!" Bellatrix cackled wildly at her own sick joke as Draco stood to follow the elf. Her laughter cut off as she tugged on his robes, bringing him close enough to hear her whisper. “Don’t be alarmed, boy. You’ll want to clean her up a bit first.”

Draco pulled his sleeve back from her and left the dining room. He stopped by a storeroom first. He didn't know how bad it would be, but he could imagine by the screams that it wouldn't be pretty. He grabbed a few things he thought he might need, but on the whole he was clueless. The elf waited in the hall for him and followed right behind as he made his way to the dungeons. He stopped at the door and took the food from the elf. "Go on, get." He kicked at the elf and watched it scurry down the hall. He cleared his throat, cracked his neck, and set his jaw. 

He found her huddled in the far corner, hugging her knees to her chest and shivering. He moved in closer and set his breakfast on the floor. "Granger..." He started. She didn't move, she didn't even blink. He took a few more steps, slowly closing the space between them. As he crossed under the lantern he shot up a ball of light from his wand to illuminate the room. The light revealed the gross marbling on her arms and legs, and the gashes that carved them up. If she looked this bad outside, there's no telling how bad she was inside. He kneeled when he reached her and she still didn't move. He hovered, not knowing what to do. His instinct urged him to reach out, to grab her and hold her as one human should always do when another is suffering but his everything he’d ever been taught sent warning signals throughout his body. She’s a mudblood! Don’t touch her!

He inhaled deeply, and on the exhale slowly lowered his hand to her shaking shoulder. She froze and so did he. “I -” he started after a moment, unaware of how he was going to finish the thought. He swallowed. “I’m not...really versed in healing charms but I have a few things that might...help.” He stumbled over his last word. Help? There was nothing he could do to help, nothing that would even come close to helping. She didn’t respond. He looked down and scanned her arm; multiple cuts, dried blood, bruises. He knew there wasn’t much he could do about the bruising, but he could clean the cuts and he may even be able to get them to stitch themselves together. He pulled out the washing cloth he’d gathered from the store room and dampened it with a quick charm. As he lowered it to her arm, to the biggest cut in her bicep, he expected a wince, or a whimper or a whine but nothing happened when the cloth touched her wound. She didn’t even flinch. It was as if she had no idea he was even there, holding her arm, cleaning her up. She probably didn't even know where she was right now, her body in shock and her mind retreating into itself. How long would this last? Was Granger going to be like this forever? He patted the gash, and gently wiped around it. When he finished that one, he moved further down to her forearm. She inhaled sharply when turned her arm, facing her palms to the ceiling. There was something internally wounded. He froze, but she gave no other noise. He set about cleaning her smaller cuts while trying to remember any healing charms he may have learned in school. He came up blank. He'd paid just enough attention to those lessons to pass the tests. He could afford the best care there was, what did he need with healing charms? 

He stared at her after finishing her arm. He needed to get to the rest of her, but he needed her to cooperate with him for that. "Granger you have to sit up." He'd intended for it to sound like a command but some he ended up sounding like he was trying to convince her. He cleared his throat. "Now. Come on."

Her movement was slow but it was there. As she at up against the wall she let her head fall to the side and the plate of food ended up in her line of sight. Malfoy crossed in front of her and began to tend to her other arm as she stared at the sausage, fruit, and eggs. She swallowed, it all looked so amazing. He heard her dry, cracked mouth open and close and looked up to see her staring at the food across the room, ignoring the tremendous amount of pain she must have been in. He stood and she flinched, almost unnoticeably. He retrieved the plate and set it next to her. She picked up the toast as he went back to her wounds and started at it. There was a small bite already taken out of it. She looked down at the plate, the sparkling, ivory colored porcelain plate with an intricate, gold pattern around the rim. She looked at the fresh fruit juice in the probably hand-cut crystal goblet. She slowly moved her head to look back at Malfoy, in his pressed pajamas and silk robes. She took a bite out of the still warm toast and let the rich, tangerine marmalade settle on to her tongue. This was his breakfast, and it was morning. It was morning. This was the first suggestion of time she had encountered since her capture. She tried not show her excitement, to keep her breathing steady and her face calm. It was morning, the sun was out, the birds were probably chirping, there were people out there, up there, living their lives. She wasn’t stuck in a vacuum where time ceased to exist, the outside world still existed. Even if she wasn’t a part of it, it was there. In someone else’s life, the sun had risen and a new day had dawned. Someone else would get a fresh start today. The thought brought her a sliver of hope.

Feeling slightly rejuvenated, she drank up the juice, then traded out the toast for the sausage link, savoring the first bite. She’d never been overly fond of meat products, but if that sausage was the only thing she’d ever eat again she’d be elated. With the sausage gone she pulled her attention back to her arm, to Malfoy gingerly dabbing the foul slur carved into her bruised flesh, to his hand wrapped in a rag splattered with her blood. She looked to his face, pulling itself into a grimace. This is a punishment for him, she thought. He is being punished for something, for not killing Dumbledore, for his father’s misgivings, for anything, he is being punished. They’re making him touch me.

Something cold dripping down her arm pulled her from her thoughts. “This should stop any infection,” Malfoy explained, devoid of sentiment. He crossed over her to apply the potion to her other arm, then stood. “Any other wounds I should know about?” She barely shook her head. Without another word he took up the plate and goblet and headed for the door, taking the light with him. She watched as his back faded into the darkness and up the staircase. She inspected her arms, now cleaner than before and feeling not quite as bad. Her muscles still ached and burned though, from the curses Bellatrix had cast on to her. If he’d have known some healing spells maybe he could have set them to repairing themselves, but he didn’t and they were left to slowly heal on their own. She forced herself to crawl to her corner and added another line to her tally, and just under it she etched in a small m. Morning. 

Draco emptied his hands with the first elf he saw, then headed to his bathroom for a shower. He’d gotten her blood on him before, and nothing had happened yet, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He could feel it on him, boring into his skin. He showered for longer than normal, scrubbed his hands and arms harder than normal. He scrubbed his skin raw and it still wasn’t enough. He still felt dirty. He scrubbed until he began to bleed in small places, but even that didn’t work. Something still felt wrong, still felt unclean. He kept scrubbing, wishing that he could turn out his insides and scrub them too. He scrubbed until he felt he was going to vomit, until he was heaving into his shower drain even though nothing was coming out. He finally gave up and turned the water off. He dressed in his best suit, his darkest suit, and combed his hair. He put on his most expensive pair of shoes and called for a house elf to shine them. He polished his wand and made sure it was secure inside of his coat pocket. He checked himself over in the mirror, making sure everything was in place, before stepping out of his bedroom and into the hallway. Just as he did so, his mother, just as polished as he was, rounded the corner.

“Oh good, you’ve dressed.” She greeted, her smile not reaching her eyes. She stopped in front of him and he realized, possibly for the first time, that he’d finally grown taller than her. She brushed a hand over his shoulder, dusting off lint that wasn’t there. “I think we need some fresh air, a change of scenery perhaps? I know we’ve discussed you not going back to school this year, but how would you feel about visiting Hogsmeade and seeing some of your friends? Hogwarts has a trip planned this afternoon, you can owl them and have them meet you somewhere.” 

Draco searched his mother’s face. She was trying so hard to keep it together. He thought about his friends on a Hogsmeade trip. With Snape as Headmaster, or figurehead at any rate, his friends would be the only ones going anyway. His mother needed out of this house, and if he was being honest with himself, so did he. He gave her a smile. “That sounds great, Mother. I’ll write them now.” She smiled back at him as he reentered his room and closed the door. He sat at his desk, stared at his parchment and quills, fed his tawny eagle owl and let her fly from the window, but did not write to his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i didnt get to post yesterday when i should have, some family stuff came up. but it's posted now so we're all good! as always, please please review?


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise! i've been a day late on updating a time or two, so i figured I'd be a day early for once! so, yes, surprise! but also, a warning. 
> 
> the end of this chapter was truly difficult to write. i had to stop, leave, and go pet my cat multiple times. the end of this chapter explores one of bella's visits to hermione, and while i know i've alluded to them before, this time i go a bit more in detail. and i know that it's not everyone's thing so here's what i'm offering;
> 
> if you wish to skip over the violence in this chapter, stop reading when you hit  
> \- "The door creaked open, slower than any time previous, taunting her." -  
> scroll to the bottom, and i will have a tl;dr out of story summary, so that you can at least know what happened. sound good?
> 
> okay, without further ado: captive, chapter five.

It was a surprisingly sunny day, though the temperatures were still low, and the ground damp and muddy; small, spring flowers had begun to bloom in Hogsmeade, at least where people still dared to cultivate them. Narcissa and Draco apparated just outside of the little village and made the small trek to the town centre, keeping to themselves as they moved, as there was not much for them to say. What were they to talk about? The pure violence that was going on in their home? Or the fact that it didn’t even feel like their home any more? Maybe they were to discuss just how weak his father, her husband, had become? How much of an empty shell he was? To avoid the unpleasant truths all together, and speak as though everything were normal would take so much effort and energy, so they walked on in silence. Silence, Draco had learned, made it more tolerable to dwell on those harsh truths alone.

 

“I’ve told Theo I’d meet him at the Three Broomsticks,” Draco said as they came to High Street. 

 

Narcissa patted his arm. “Wonderful. Send him my love, won’t you? I think I’ll pop into the salon, I hear the Selwyns haven taken ownership of it. Maybe they’ll finally have some decent products.” 

 

Draco watched her walk towards the hairdressers before turning his attention to the rest of the village before him. He knew the roads and buildings so well; the bright colors of Honeydukes, the conjured smoke rising from the sign of the cauldron shop, the earthy, peaty scent of the herbology shop, the hoots and coos that surrounded the post office; it all should have been so familiar. It wasn’t, though, nothing was the same. Zonko’s was boarded up, as was the music shop and Spintwitches; there were so few owls in the post office that it was all but silent. There were fewer people, too. Where were all the students laughing, or hoarding around the newest broom model? What had once been a small but bustling hub for the only all-wizarding village in Britain was reduced to a handful of less-than-savory characters mulling about and a small, tired looking bunch of students in a candy shoppe. Sighing, he flipped the hood of his robes up and, keeping his head down, began walking through the village. It was hard to see his childhood so obviously changed, run down, and abandoned.

 

He kept to the edges of the road, hugging close to the buildings. He stopped when he came to the door of the Three Broomsticks, looked up at the hanging sign above, then crossed in front of the door to the window. From behind the dusty pane of glass he searched the mostly empty tables. There was a small group of rough-looking men huddled with small glasses, sitting closer to the window, and a couple of younger students wrapped in Slytherin scarves sat in the middle of the room. But in the far corner, whispering with one another, sat his friends. He saw Pansy laugh and nudge Theo with her elbow. Blaise smiled, which was as much of a laugh as anyone would get out of him. Daphne crossed in front of the table carrying four mugs of what he assumed was butterbeer. She sat down next to Theo and rested her head on his shoulder. Draco raised an eyebrow. That’s a new development, he thought. Just then, Blaise’s head turned toward the window. Draco’s heart dropped as he ducked out of view. He pulled his hood further over his face and continued on, past the warm pub. 

 

Of course part of him wanted to see his friends, to be in the company of peers who knew him well, but a bigger part of him wanted to avoid them at all costs because of how well they knew him; because he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hide from them; because they would ask questions and he wasn’t sure how he’d answer, wasn’t sure if he really could answer. What was the protocol for living in the headquarters of a rising regime? Would he risk someone’s life if he mentioned seeing them in a hallway of his home? Maybe at some point he could have trusted himself to respond properly, but too much had happened and he wasn’t sure if he could anymore. There were far too many risks to keeping company with people he thought he could trust, and it wasn’t worth letting his guard down for even a moment. He kept walking, stopping only when he realized the cobblestone beneath him had stopped, curving to the right to round out another street. He looked up and in the distance, through a shrouding layer of fog, stood the Shrieking Shack. A vivid memory presented itself, one of his younger self being terrified by what he now knew was just Potter in that damn cloak of his, having a go. He almost laughed. What he wouldn’t give for that to be his only fear now, a stupid haunted shack and a teenage enemy whose only weapon was a few poorly-formed snowballs.

 

"Draco?" came a voice from behind him. His stomach dropped. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice him, to make a deal of it. "Draco, is that you?" they asked again. He'd heard the voice before, but it wasn't familiar enough that he knew who it was. He braced himself and turned. Standing behind the last building on the street was a small brunette, her cheeks rosy from the wind. 

 

"Astoria? How are you?" 

 

She ignored him and narrowed her eyes. Her studying gaze burnt a hole through him, and Draco felt something akin to guilt. “You never came back.” It was part question, part statement. 

 

He scoffed, quickly searching for the right words. “Like I’d return to this pathetic excuse for a school if I didn’t have to? I’ve got more important things to do, things the Dark Lord has asked of me.”

 

She cocked her head and Draco felt as if she were looking past the cold, frowning front he was putting up. “Then why are you here now?” Her tone wasn’t accusing, but it wasn’t one of pure curiosity either. It was almost as if she either already knew the answer, or didn’t care. 

 

“Why are you here?” he asked, deflecting the question. “Outside,” he clarified, “on the edge of town, alone?” 

 

Astoria shrugged. “Fresh air, a few minutes of solitude, some sort of respite from the..” she stopped, not wanting to anger herself. She looked to Draco. “Let me see your hand.” 

 

Draco opened his mouth to protest but before any noise came out she’d reached out and grabbed his wrist. She always was quick, seeker’s reflexes, he thought. Shame she never played. She turned his palm toward the sky and ran a finger over it, studying the creases and wrinkles. Draco didn’t quite know what to do and before he could figure it out she’d looked up at him with a mixture of shock, worry, and horror. He scowled and snatched his hand away. Daphne had told him about her sister, the “gifts” she supposedly had. He had always been skeptical, but even more so lately. If he had learned anything from a life on the cusp of war, it was that nothing was ever predictable.

 

“I see they’re still teaching that useless Divinations class. What do you think you got out of that, anyway?” Astoria didn’t answer, she just searched his features for the boy he used to be. He’d always been cold and angular, but there’d been a confident and self-assured air behind him then - the boy before her was slouching ever so slightly, was bending under the pressure, even if he couldn’t see it yet. There was a moment of silence, and when Draco spoke his voice was low, a hoarse whisper. “It’s that bad, at Hogwarts?” 

 

Astoria averted her eyes. “Well...I’m better at the Cruciatus curse than I thought I’d be, not that I ever wanted to find out.” She paused. “Daph’s better.”

 

Draco stopped himself from gaping at her, reminding himself to keep his decorum. He looked at her, her soft hair falling around her shoulders and framing her round face. He had few memories of her, but the ones he had were of a little sister tagging along behind Daphne, a quiet girl sitting in the corner of the common room, studying her books and those around her, sweet and unassuming. But now, thanks to the reign of the Carrow twins, the girl in front of him was shrugging off being adept at the Cruciatus curse. 

 

"How - how's Pansy? Blaise?" He asked, finally able to find something to say. But he regretted asking as soon as he had. Did he really want to know how they were faring in the new, cruel school system? Either they were doing well and enjoying the torture of younger students or they were doing poorly and suffering through the torture. 

 

“You could ask them yourself, if you waited a few minutes.” Draco looked down at her in confusion but she just shrugged. “I can feel them coming down the road.”

 

Draco swallowed. “Can you not tell -”

 

“Of course. Go.” Astoria jerked her head, motioning to the alley that ran behind the row of businesses. Draco looked at her, trying to make sense of how she could be so understanding, how their whole exchange had an air of distant camaraderie to it even though they’d never really been friends. He walked past her, closing his coat around him as some feeble form of protection but she called out to him, half turning to face him. “Draco!” He looked back. “Be careful, your aura is...changing and I don’t - I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”

**xxx**

The Manor was, cold, quiet, and, most importantly, empty. He could feel it as soon as he stepped inside. It almost felt like the home he had known for so long. Almost. He didn’t know where his aunt had run off to, nor did he care, he was just glad that she had, and that she’d taken all of her lackies with her. Footsteps neared the entry as he and his mother handed their coats down to an elf. Draco stiffened, preparing himself for anything, but it was only his father. He gave them a half smile.

 

“Ah, Cissa, Draco, please, won’t you join us in the drawing room?” With his words, Lucius gave his family a significant look; this was something more than a little family chat. In the drawing room, on either end of the over stuffed, ornate sofa, sat the Carrow twins. Amycus stood and bowed.

 

“Mrs. Malfoy, how nice of you, and Draco, to join us.” Draco gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and Amycus sat back down.

 

Narcissa forced a thin smile, keeping her hands lightly clasped in front of her and her elbows out. “To what do we owe this... pleasant visit?”

 

From his position near the credenza, Lucius cleared his throat. “The Carrows are here on Hogwarts business.” 

 

“Yes,” Alecto began, looking up to Narcissa, “we are here to offer a reinstatement of his seat on the Board of Governors.”

“But I - I was just insisting that I discuss the matter with you” Lucius said, pouring himself a small strip of single malt firewhiskey. “After all, family first.” 

 

Draco saw his mother’s jaw flex, but she kept her composure. She always did. “How considerate of you, dear. Though, as it stands, I’m sure you’re much too occupied with other, more important, tasks - tasks assigned to you by the Dark Lord himself.” She was particularly pointed with her last few words, the effect of which was not lost on the twins.

 

Amycus drew his spine up. “We would consider it a great favor if the House of Malfoy was once again represented at Hogwarts, particularly in these changing times.”

 

“We will definitely have to give it some thought.” Lucius offered. 

 

Narcissa interjected. “However until then I'm afraid I will have to escort you out, we are so very busy after all.” 

 

Draco couldn't help but feel a swell of pride at how well his mother handled the unexpected situation. She was tactful, diplomatic- but unwilling to sacrifice. There was no question that she had steered the conversation exactly where she had wanted it to go. With a smile on her face she held her arm out, visually guiding the Carrows out of the room. They stood, nodded toward Lucius, and headed for the door. Narcissa followed and moved to open the front door for them. 

 

“We hope to hear from you soon,” Alecto said, before crossing over the threshold. 

 

Amycus paused on his way out. “Though, if we were to be quite honest...we'd much rather give the position to you, Mrs. Malfoy.” Narcissa didn’t respond, Amycus tiled his head and gave a half-smile. “Just something to think about.”

 

Narcissa returned a tight smile. “Something indeed. Safe travels.” As she shut the door behind them her smile fell into a scowl. She returned to her family in the drawing room. “The nerve,” she muttered. “You? Return to the board? Do they not realize that you have actual important things to do?” She stopped short when she saw the glass of amber liquid in her son’s hand, a heftier portion than what she had watched her husband pour for himself. “Lucius!”

 

“Draco having a drink is the least of our worries at present, and in fact you could probably do with one yourself.” Lucius extended his arm, glass in hand. His smile was weak, and didn’t reach his tired eyes. 

 

Narcissa sighed and took the glass, resigned to change the future and not the past. It burned her throat. “Draco, finish your drink in your room. There is a discussion I need to have with your Father.” 

 

Put off, Draco looked to his father, who did nothing but give a stern nod, supplying his agreement. He sighed and left the room, but stopped just outside of the doors. 

 

He heard his mother. “It seems any Malfoy will do for the Carrows. They offered it to me, as well.” Uninterested, he left, drink in hand, ambling towards his chambers.

**xxx**

Draco received no instructions from his aunt that night - so he made no attempt to visit the dungeons or the girl whose screams had escaped their prison. Instead he locked himself in his room, opting out of dinner. He begged his mother for the furlough, unsure if he could stomach another meal with his aunt, not after he had seen the shape Granger had been in.

 

“Please, Mother, just tell her I’m ill. I can’t handle playing court with everyone right now. We can’t afford any mistakes, I don’t want to slip up and lose my temper.” Knowingly, Narcissa offered him a sad smile, squeezed her son’s hand, and left him alone with his haunting thoughts.

 

He laid in bed that night - staring at the twinkling stars in his ceiling, watching them drift and dance. Perhaps tonight, if he stared long enough, hard enough - he would finally see the two that always fell out of formation before they could be identified. He tried to sleep - tried to shut off his mind and power down, but sleep would not come. He knew he had more sleeping potion in his bedside table but he didn’t bother. Sleep, he realized, would bring nightmares. At least when he was awake he could control his mind.

 

The small bouts of sleep he did get were wrought with screams - echoes of the previous night, playing themselves over again in his mind; they were plastered with her apathetic face, motionless, lifeless. 

 

He woke early the next day, early enough to nip a bit of toast from the kitchen before breakfast was even served. The day was uneventful, but not without its pressures. Draco spent the day on edge - tiptoeing on eggshells, a manticore in an apothecary’s shop. He couldn’t help but think of Granger; in the dungeons, alone and bleeding. To his knowledge, Bella hadn’t been below the Manor again but she also hadn’t given him any instructions. And he couldn’t ask her, couldn’t let on that he was paying Granger any kind of mind. So, he spent the day trying to distract himself and failing miserably.

 

After breakfast he hoped to get lost in his favourite book, but could never get more than a few pages into the work before the words began to blur and his mind started to wander. After an hour of trying, he slammed the book closed and tossed it aside, letting it skid across the polished parquet floors. He stood from the lounge chair and paced around his room. Before he knew it he was in the hall, aimlessly wandering throughout the Manor. His home was so large, so cavernous, that there were rooms he’d not been in for years. He never had a need to visit any of the numerous spare bedrooms, or extra sitting rooms. There were libraries that had been magically sealed in his youth, to prevent Ministry examination of dark artifacts and texts. Entire wings of the Manor had been left mostly abandoned, visited only by the house elves who ensured their dust-free maintenance. There were ballrooms he hadn’t seen since parties held over Christmas years ago, when he and Theodore chased the Greengrass girls around their father’s knees, hiding beneath their billowing dress robes. 

 

By midday he’d found himself in a room on the third floor, with towering, opulently framed windows and a canvas covered grand piano. With a quick tug he removed the cover, sending specks of dust flying into the sun beams that streamed in from the windows. He twitched, fighting back flashes of memories; the vanishing cabinet, the bird, Dumbledore, the Death Eaters he’d let into his school. He dropped the canvas and composed himself, forcing three little words through his thoughts. I had to. He flexed his fingers, cracked his knuckles even, and hovered them above the ivory keys - old habits really did die hard. It had been over a year since he’d even touched a piano, but they say it's not something that's easily forgotten. He ran his finger across the keys then warmed up with a series of sloppy scales before flowing into to something low, slow, and sad. The music echoed through the room, showcasing its perfect acoustics. He missed a note here and there but the frequency with which he did so lessened the longer he played. He shifted octaves, moving into a deeper, more melancholic tone. His jaw tensed, his neck spasmed, but he kept his head down, letting his hair fall into his eyes. He kept playing. After a while he wasn't sure he was even playing anything he knew, anything that was already on a music sheet. He stopped only when his mother beckoned him for lunch.

 

After lunch he wandered the grounds, losing himself in the hedge maze on the side grounds. One of the peacocks, Peregrine, if he wasn't mistaken, followed him for quite a while. But as the sun settled lower in the sky and the evening fog thickened even it wouldn't stay in the maze. Once he finally decided to retreat inside, it took him quite a bit of time to find his way out. He was actually lost in the maze, something he hadn’t been in almost a decade. 

 

He went to bed that night still not having heard anything of Granger. He tossed under the sheets, flipped his pillow over and over, stared at the back of his eyelids for hours; he was utterly unable to find comfort within his own skin.

**xxx**

The door creaked open, slower than any time previous, taunting her. The wood scraped across the stone floor, flooding the chamber with its song. Her arm, the slur etched deep into her skin, burned; the bone beneath it ached. There were footsteps - a heeled boot, light, slow, and short strided. Hermione tried to level her breathing, tried to convince herself that fear wouldn’t help her, that fear wouldn’t stop Bellatrix from doing whatever it was she was about to do. Fear would only hurt her now.

 

Her leg cried out in pain as she stood, her ribs protested as she tried to breathe deep, her muscles shook, but she didn’t relent. She stood and waited. 

 

Bellatrix was taking her time, her footsteps slowing growing closer as she remained hidden in the shadows. She laughed, a small chuckle amplified by the echos of the stones. “Oh, it stands,” she jeered, “thinks it’s brave, does it?” A small speck of light emitted from the tip of her wand and floated toward the hanging lantern in the middle of the chamber. It only barely lit the room, making the toothy grin on Bellatrix’s face that much more terrifying. “I’ll have to fix that, now won’t I?”

 

Hermione gasped at the sudden pressure in her head. She reeled, knocking the back of her head into the wall behind her. Her fists clenched at her sides and cut crescents into the heels of her hands. It was nothing like the Imperio Malfoy had cast over her, that made her feel light and airy, euphoric even, but this felt like a boulder in her head, an expanding balloon threatening to burst through her skull. Any weak attempt at shielding her mind was quickly trumped by Bellatrix’s power and strength. She could see everything Bellatrix was seeing; memories of her early childhood flashing by like a shuffling deck of cards, rushing by until coming to an abrupt halt. 

 

First year, Hogwarts Express, Harry. 

 

“Snotty little know-it-all, weren’t you?” But Bellatrix wasn’t interested in two eleven year olds meeting on a train; she slowly twisted her head side to side, popping the joints in her neck, and continued. Tears streamed down Hermione’s cheeks as Bellatrix kept filtering through her mind, laughing, cackling even, as she stopped on a new memory. 

 

First year, Charms class, Ron. 

 

“Oh, it's Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, is it?” She mocked, drawing out her words for emphasis. Bellatrix raised her wand, not needing to utter the incantation as she performed the all too familiar Swish and Flick.

 

Hermione’s body lifted into the air with a jolt, her head and feet falling limp, stretching her torso into arch; pulling at her ribs, cracking her back, and opening wounds in her side. She whimpered, groaned as the air was forced from her lungs, and shook as she tried to breathe. She tried to retreat into the memory, tried to recall everything from that day; the woody scent of the desks and benches, the polish used to clean them, the softness of the feather tickling her fingertips, the low but steady murmur of children all around her trying their hand at the Levitation spell. She tried to think of Ron that day, the fire of his hair, the musk of his hand-me-down robes combined with the earthy tones he always seemed to smell of, the haphazard way he was flinging his wand about. “You’re saying it wrong,” she heard herself say.

 

It was her stomach that pulled her out of the memory, what little bit of content that was in it was slowly churning and rising in her chest. The room was spinning, or rather, she was. Her hair flew out to the side, smacking into the walls when she came too close to the corner.

 

“Having fun yet?” Bellatrix cackled, turning her wand hand around in the air above her. 

 

Just when Hermione felt the burning bile coating her throat she fell to the ground with a sickening thud, the force casting out a small amount of vomit from her throat, into the air like a sad, primary school science-fair volcano, and back onto her chin and neck. She coughed out a choke that ended in a sob. Bellatrix laughed. Hermione reached for her face, an attempt to wipe herself clean, but a sharp pain to her back caused a spasm that froze her arms to her side. 

 

“Leave it.” Bellatrix commanded. The pain stopped but Bellatrix grew closer. Her footsteps surrounded Hermione, sounding around her like a vulture circling its prey. She was still dizzy, the room still spun, the walls tilted back and forth, in and out of focus. There was a boulder in her head again. 

 

Bellatrix was jumping around, no longer sticking to the strict timeline of Hermione’s life. “Oh, this one’s nice,” she cooed. 

 

Fourth year, Potions class, Malfoy. 

 

“Densaugeo!” She said, more for Hermione’s sake than the spell’s. Hermione cried out as her teeth began to stretch out of her mouth, slowly reaching past her lips, and then her chin. She didn’t remember it hurting as much the first go around, but fourteen year-old Malfoy probably wasn’t near as skilled as full grown Bellatrix Lestrange. Her teeth kept growing, curling around her chin, slowly cutting into the soft skin above her throat. They finally stopped as she felt her warm blood dripping into the hollow of her throat. 

 

Bellatrix began to circle again, pushing into her mind again. She picked up where she left off, following one memory to another, letting Hermione’s brain trigger the next logical choice. Hermione saw herself, in the first dress she ever really loved, crying on the steps outside of the great hall. 

 

Fourth year, the Yule Ball, Ron.

 

“Crying? Over that blood-traitor Weasley?” Bellatrix searched further, deeper. She spit, her phlegm landing right next to Hermione’s head. “Love?” She struggled with the word. 

 

Through her tears, Hermione saw Bellatrix’s expressions change from confusion, to realization, to utter joy.

 

“Oh, this will be such fun.” Bellatrix skipped around, laughing, stretching her wand hand. She stopped, her spine straight and heels together, and cleared her throat. Hermione couldn’t hear the words she was murmuring but she could see her turn her wand on herself, holding it above her head and twirling it in small circles. Three times clockwise, three times counter-clockwise; three times clockwise, three times counter-clockwise. As she kept up the movement her body began to change. 

 

She didn’t change in height, but her hair grew shorter, lighter, red. Her voice didn’t change, but her nose stretched further down her face, her lips thinned, and freckles sprouted up across her cheeks. Her shoulders widened, her chest shrunk. Her clothes morphed themselves too; jeans and a striped sweater. She looked down at herself, stretched her arms out, examined her bigger hands. “Pretty good, huh?” She didn’t want an answer. Hermione shut her eyes. Bellatrix’s transfiguration didn’t look exactly like Ron, she’d need Polyjuice for that, but it was close enough. 

 

Bellatrix grew closer. “You know,” she started, her tone sweet, disturbing, “it really is a shame you didn’t get to dance with him at your ickle ball.” She paused. Hermione kept her head turned, eyes shut, unable to see her but fully able to feel her. “Let’s rectify that.” 

 

A cold, clammy hand latched onto Hermione's wrist, pulling her up with a jerk. She crashed, chest to chest, into Ron - Bellatrix. Bellatrix. There was an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. 

 

“No...no.” She sobbed, her voice quiet and breaking. Bellatrix ignored her, pulled her hand into the air, and began humming something upbeat and slightly reminiscent of a waltz. 

 

Bellatrix spun her around the room like a rag doll. Hermione’s feet dragged the floor, sending sharp pains up her legs and her free arm dangled, knuckles scraping against the walls when they got too close. She kept her eyes close, kept reminding trying to remind herself that it wasn’t really Ron. It didn’t feel like Ron, didn’t smell like Ron, didn’t sound like Ron - it was not Ron. 

 

They were spinning again, this time together. But when they stopped Bellatrix spun Hermione outward - directly into a wall. Hermione cried out as her shoulder, her entire arm, hit the wall and her head bounced off of it. Bellatrix pulled her back, now positioning herself behind Hermione, wrapping her arms around the girl. Bellatrix let out a fake hum of content. “Isn’t this nice?” She’d dropped her voice a few octaves. They stood there, swaying back and forth, for only a few moments before Bellatrix spun her out again, throwing the entire front side of Hermione’s body into the wall. 

 

The twisted dance routine continued late into the night, until finally Bellatrix let go of Hermione completely and let her fall into a heap on the floor. “Done now,” she cooed, then skipped off toward the staircase. 

 

Hermione flinched as the door slammed. Her whole body ached, every inch, every muscle. Her lips were cracking, both from dehydration and from the pressure her overgrown teeth were now putting on them. Every sob sent more pain radiating through her body. 

 

As she laid there, shivering and sobbing, she couldn’t help but wonder if Malfoy would return. He’d brought food, and medicines last time; he’d helped her last time, if only a little. She closed her eyes, tried to will her body to stop shaking, to force herself out of shock, but she knew it didn't’ work like that. All she could do now was wait.

**xxx**

He’d actually almost fallen asleep, surprisingly tired from the day of relentlessly searching for distraction, when his door flew open, slamming against the wall behind it. He knew exactly what would have caused the violent disturbance.

 

“Get up boy - it’s nearly sunrise!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY OF THE LAST SCENE:  
> Bellatrix pays another visit to Hermione, only this time it's not just slash and gash, cut and dry, torture. Bellatrix gets into her mind, and uses her own memories against her. Bella uses Wingardium Leviosa to pull Hermione into the air, and spin her around in a big circle over and over again. Then she uses Densaugeo to grow Hermione's teeth until they curl under her chin. Finally, after viewing a few memories of the Yule Ball, Bella disillusions herself in to Ron, or something close enough anyway, and dances with Hermione all night, slamming her into the walls when ever she feels like it.  
> When she's done, at nearly dawn, she summons Draco. 
> 
> whew. so, hopefully you guys liked it. and i hope it didn't get too dark for you. i just really didn't want to continue to ignore hermione's pain, to take the experience away from her to focus on draco. i really don't think it'll get this bad again, tho i can't promise anything. anyway, as always, please let me know what you think, i love to hear from you guys. 
> 
> also, i'm sorry to say that the next chapter is three weeks away, instead of the usual two. thanksgiving holidays are coming up for me, and while that normally means a week off of school, that also means family time, more work time, and work on the two projects i have due after the holidays time. sad face. that being said, would anyone like to discuss cults or book banning in us public schools? 
> 
> again, thanks so much for reading guys. it really means a lot to me. hope you guys have a great next few weeks!!


	6. Six

Draco was sure he almost had the grain on the wooden door memorized, his hands could trace it out from memory. It was so old and so worn that it didn’t really feel like wood anymore, but something completely different. The sound it made as it scraped across the centuries-old stone beneath it would echo in his mind for hours. This was the oldest part of the manor, and although Draco hadn’t personally spent much time in the dungeons, every time he found himself there he swore he could feel the centuries of melancholia in the air. His more recent experiences did nothing but add to that, and that reeked of weakness to him. I can’t actually be affected by this. He steadied the tray in his hand, which he would never admit was shaking, and with a quick flick of his wand the door creaked open. He thought he was ready to see Granger, but he wasn’t. He really wasn’t.

He found her in a pile on the floor, her head buried beneath a mound of matted hair; darkened by a combination of dirt, grease, and the low light. As he set the tray down near her, he threw his hand behind him and sent a small ball of light to the ceiling. Even in the weak light the marks on her body were glaringly obvious, forcing him to look and trapping his eyes so he couldn’t gaze away. Every bit that he could see was slathered in bruises, her skin a colourful reminder of the Monet in his mother’s study. Cutting into her painted flesh were scrapes speckled with dust and bits of rock and crusted over with blood, her skin swollen and strained.

He crouched down beside her and looked to the tray. He’d brought a cloth, a few bandages, and a spot of toast, but nothing for the bruising. There was also a small, unmarked potion his aunt had given him sitting on a small piece of parchment. Draco moved the mysterious bottle, hoping to read whatever the smeared ink was supposed to tell him. The colour looked alarmingly like dried blood. He was greeted with his Aunt’s ridiculous cursive, an erratic and angular mess of harsh lines and abrupt stops.

_“Make the mudblood smile  
I like to hear her scream.”_

He reread it, but it still didn’t make any sense. He didn’t really want to make Granger smile, and he certainly didn’t know what a potion would have to do with it if he did. He traded the potion for the cloth and after a small charm it was damp enough to clean out her wounds. He started with her left shoulder and moved his way down to her knuckles, trying to ignore the small whimpering noises coming from under the mass of dark hair.

“Is...are there any more?” He asked, assuming the other side of her body was just as bad. She wheezed as she weakly pushed herself up from the ground and paused before finally turning around. Draco felt the air in his lungs leave him, like they chose to empty themselves of their own accord, as his memory of Fourth Year rushed to the front of his mind. He saw himself, younger and doubled over in laughter - he certainly wasn’t laughing now. How did I think this was funny then? His eyes flickered to the bottle and it finally clicked. He looked back to her teeth, the bottle, her teeth. They were curled under her chin, holding her mouth closed, how was she to drink it? His eyes searched the space in front of him as he tried to figure out a solution. The soft skin under her chin was scratched and red, and he didn’t want to risk breaking her teeth to open her mouth. 

“Its for your -” he stammered, grabbing the bottle and pulling out the cork stopper. “But I -” 

He heard her take a deep breath before she reached out and took the bottle from him. She tilted her head to the side, groaned as she pulled the corner of her lips as far apart as she could, and tipped the bottle up. Some of the thick potion dribbled down her cheek and on to her neck but most of it went down her throat. He watched on as she wiped her face with the back of her hand and passed the bottle back to him, the low light causing the potion residue to gleam just the smallest bit. How she still had the wherewithal to force her lips apart like that, to know what needed to be done and do it...Well, it wasn’t like he was impressed, or anything. She always was stubborn. Her efforts seemed wasted, however- Draco saw no difference in the condition of her teeth. But then, he had no idea how fast the potion was supposed to work. He had his doubts about it working at all.

They sat in silence for a few moments before he remembered that he had neglected to tend to the injuries on her other arm. She didn’t make any effort to remind him, and it seemed that she had expended what spark she had on forcing the unmarked potion past her lips. When he was finished he gathered his supplies on the tray but left the toast.

After Malfoy left, Hermione reached for the toast and made her way to her corner. To her tally marks she added a line, but crossed it at the top. She'd been marking little ‘T’s for Bellatrix’s visits. Next to it, she added just a line; his visit. The pressure around her chin began to let up, slowly at first, but it wasn’t long before she was able to carefully nibble on the - cold by that point - toast. As her teeth continued their throbbing ascent back to their normal size, Hermione felt herself drifting in and out of sleep. She fought it, for as long as she could as some sort of feeble attempt at keeping some control over herself but it was futile. They sent Malfoy for a reason, Bellatrix would come back in full force and it would happen soon; she knew she needed her strength. She shivered as she slept, a fitful rest haunted by visions of things caught somewhere between dream and nightmare. 

_Her childhood; her parents tucking her in at night and reading to her from books far beyond her age, her father doing voice impressions and her mother making sound effects - those sound effects morphing and contorting into sounds of war, no longer coming from her mother but echoing in the cold stone space around her -_

_A flipbook of images; scenes from the old war documentaries her father used to watch, black and white explosions, uniformed militaries marching in the streets, an angry little man yelling into a microphone to adoring crowds, spliced together with the most recent headlines she’d seen about missing muggles and random attacks on innocent villages, the on-going manhunt for her best friend, everything tinted with a sick green -_

_Fantasies of what could have been; no Voldemort - Harry happy with his parents - a normal graduation with her friends and parents cheering her on - a summer vacation abroad with Ginny and Harry and Ron -_

_Ron; the pain, the stone wall, the laughter -_

Even in her dreams she tried to fight those thoughts, “That’s not Ron,” she muttered, jerking in her sleep, physically turning from the idea that it was. 

_The Burrow; the warmth of the fireplace, the blush pink slatted walls of Ginny’s room, the smell of delicious food that always seemed to be cooking, the orange glow that seemed to emit from Ron’s room with all of his Chudley Cannons memorabilia, the constant sulfur smell of fireworks seeping from the twins’ room, the worn but loved furniture draped in handmade blankets and throws - flames engulfing all of it, fire reaching toward the clouds, the family trapped and screaming inside, a wand to her throat and the rotting smell of Bellatrix behind her forcing her to watch on helplessly._

_Her home; the clean and tidy house with a tint of blue to everything, the perfectly aligned family photos on the walls and the mantle, the eucalyptus plant in the kitchen, the one meant to clean the air that she so long ago named Samuel - an explosion, everything in charred piles on the once perfectly manicured lawn._

She thrashed again, jerking her head into the wall behind her, awaking her with a start. She struggled to catch her breath and wiped the snot and tears from her face as she looked around frantically, desperately trying to gather her bearings. 

“Okay...okay,” she said, her breathing finally starting to regulate. She reached her hands out, searching for some sort of substantial rock or pebble. “You have to get out of your head. Y-y-you have to...do something - something with your hands.” She pushed her hair back, out of her face and found a stone larger than the one she’d been using. She scurried to the far corner of the room, past the door, in an area where Bellatrix never took her. No, Bellatrix liked the center of the room, where she had space to play. _You have to get out of your head._

Hermione started on the wall, stretching her arm up and ignoring the pain. She made a circle, then added triangles around it. A sun, which she then flanked with clouds. Daytime; something she wasn’t sure she’d ever see again. In that moment she hated herself for never pausing to enjoy the feel of sunshine on her skin. She didn’t think this would be her end, then. As something clicked in her brain, she added to the doodle all of the runes she could think of associated with it. The rune for day, for light, sun, ray, warmth, for sky and for happy. She’d continued, creating a whole scene involving grass and flowers and a rabbit, and covered in runes and symbols before she heard the door open again. She dropped the rock and ran back to her corner, looking back once to assure herself that her work was hidden in the shadows. 

All too soon, Bellatrix’s distinct footfalls sounded in the dungeon, but it wasn’t exactly her who appeared under the harsh light of her lumos. There were freckles again, and red hair - but they were less abundant and the hair longer. 

“Ginny,” Hermione mumbled, more of an exhale than an actual word. 

Bellatrix smiled. “I do hope I got the hair right.”

**xxx**

Narcissa sat, as always, with her shoulders back and spine straight, at the substantial yet delicately carved writing desk, precisely and perfectly positioned in the sitting area off of her bedroom. A simple, folded card sat on the polished surface, staring up at her. A small, unfamiliar copper owl had delivered it that morning and left without waiting for a response or a treat. Her name was written carefully on the front, in a hand she hadn’t seen in quite a long time but a hand she still knew nonetheless. She’d put off reading it, pushing it to the back of her mind as she went about her day, but as the night wore on she knew she could put it off no longer. Slowly, her hands went to the edges of the thick parchment, flipping the front open. She ran her fingertips over the neat cursive, feeling the small grooves left by the quill. Black family correspondence usually bore their family crest, but she felt its distinct absence somewhere deep in the pit of her stomach.

_Cissa,_  
Our family has welcomed a new addition. I thought it only courteous that you should be informed.  
Your sister,  
Andromeda Tonks  


She huffed at the last word. As if Andromeda needed to add a last name, as if Narcissa would not know who had sent the letter. It was a simple jab, meant to irritate and aggravate. Nevertheless, Narcissa’s eyes flickered back to the closing. Your sister. She felt a stinging sensation begin behind her eyes, but took a steadying breath to quell it. She took out parchment from the side drawer and reached for a quill.

She went through a foot and a half of her best parchment, writing and scratching out different responses, some meaner and colder than others. Should she be strict and cordial, a mirror to her sister? Or flat out snide, insulted that Andromeda would even think of sending her such a letter? Or, should she not respond at all, like she would have, had the letter come at a less...turbulent time? Finally, at the end of the two foot scroll, she’d written one word, with perfectly curated penmanship. 

As she heard the bedroom door open she ripped the bottom off and put the top in the rubbish bin by the desk. She slipped her response inside of Andromeda’s card and pushed it to the top of the desk, heavy footsteps nearing the doorway to the sitting room. 

“Hello, my love.” 

She turned to face her husband, trying her best to hide her dilemma from her face. The last thing they needed was her old, petty family matters thrown in with the rest of the their current problems. These were issues that she had thought were long settled, but the unease she felt told her otherwise. His voice calmed her, he always used a softer tone when they were alone.

“You look worried, dear. Something troubling you?” Lucius asked, nearing her and placing his hands on her shoulders. She stood, guiding him away from the desk. 

“Nothing new,” she answered. “I was just about to prepare for bed.” 

“That is positively the best thing I’ve heard all day.” He removed his cloak and pushed his shoes from his feet. Narcissa kissed him on the cheek and walked into their bathroom. She emerged later, showered and changed into her nightwear, and took a seat at her vanity. Lucius showered as she applied her nightly serums and creams. 

“Have you seen our son lately?” She asked as he left the steaming bathroom. She picked up her hairbrush, but Lucius took it from her hands before she could put it to her head. 

“Of course I have,” he said, gingerly guiding the brush through her hair. 

“No, I mean really seen him. He’s wasting away. I can’t recall the last time I saw him eat an entire meal.” Lucius was quiet for a long time as he brushed his wife’s long, silky hair. 

It was during that time that Draco happened by their open bedroom door. He watched them silently for a precious moment as he remembered childhood nights spent running around their room, jumping on their bed (much to their very vocal dismay), watching his father run an ivory handled brush through his mother’s hair. He remembered the faint, but content smile on her face and noted how utterly absent it was at that moment. He hurried on, moving toward his room at the other end of the hall before he was noticed. 

“We’ll get through this,” Lucius finally said, handing the brush back to his wife. “We always get through it.” He kissed the top of her head then headed towards their bed. Narcissa took one last glance toward her desk, toward the birth announcement in the corner, before she too climbed into bed. 

The next morning Draco stood in the doorway of his parents’ empty room. His father was away and his mother was downstairs making sure those ogre-like Death Eaters didn’t destroy her immaculate home. There was a dresser just to the left of the door that displayed multiple family photos, and a vase that was probably older than Merlin himself. Draco lifted one of the frames and looked at the young woman staring back at him. It was his mother, probably only a few years older than he was. She was holding a hand just on the other side of the camera and trying not to smile. Her hair was shorter and her eyes brighter, but she was still very much his mother. He set the picture down in favor of another, smaller one. This one was of an infant, of him laying in a bassinet reaching for something out of frame. Another picture displayed his toddler self, laughing and running from the camera. Still another showed him at five, maybe six, chasing one of the peacocks. 

There were more pictures strewn about the bedroom; a staunch and proper family portrait on his father’s bedside table, and the moment just after that as they laughed at themselves on his mother’s side. The bookshelf at the far end of the room was peppered with older family photos, pictures of his grandparents and great aunts and uncles. But his favourite picture lived on his mother’s desk. He was still just a baby, and he reached for his mother’s smiling face as she cradled him in her arms. It had always been his favourite, there was something about the look on his mother’s face; a look of pure, unbridled happiness, that filled him with warmth.

He held onto the photograph for as long as he had to and then just a little longer. As he set it back down he noticed a very much out-of-place piece of stationery with his mother’s name on it. As he picked up the card, a spare bit of parchment fluttered out. He scanned the contents of the card. 

“Andromeda…” he mumbled. He’d only ever heard that name in scathing remarks about blood traitors and disowned family members, spoken in a hushed voice as a caution against any sort of rebellion. He read the parchment. There, in his mother’s hand and her signature gold flecked, deep emerald ink, was one word.

_Congratulations_

It seemed a sparse reply, but there was something in the carefulness and deliberate manner of the handwriting that seemed to convey more. As he held both papers, Narcissa’s almost solid grey Elf Owl hooted in his golden cage. His mother didn’t intend on sending the reply, he realized, or else she would have sent it with the rest of her mail early that morning. He looked back into the room, full of family photos, then back to the parchment. He knew, in that moment more than ever, that family meant something, no matter the past. Family meant everything. Slipping his mother’s reply into his pocket, he replaced the announcement exactly where he found it, and headed straight to his room, to his owl.

“Ah, here’s my dear nephew!” Draco had just left his room, in search of his mother, when he was intercepted by Bellatrix. “I do believe your services are need in the dungeons.” 

Draco sighed. “Again,” he mumbled before catching himself. It was too late; Bellatrix’s hand connected with his cheek in a loud crack. 

“Do we have a problem serving the Dark Lord, boy?” 

He worked his jaw and averted his eyes, just as Severus had taught him. “No.” 

She smile and let him loose. "Good. Now _go_."

The next few days ran together: a blur of bandages and bruises, tray after tray of salves and not nearly enough nutrition to survive, a rollercoaster of stairs, finding her in a crumpled heap on the floor, laid out against a wall, curled up in a corner, asleep, awake, reacting to pain, giving no indication whatsoever that she could feel anything. He spent most of his free time in his room, a silencing charm cast around him and Dreamless Sleeping Draught at his lips. 

As for Hermione, the only solace she could find in that time was the fact that Bellatrix seemed to be testing her endurance rather than her capability to withstand immense pain in one go. Endurance she could handle, reopening the same wounds every time she could take, she could numb herself to this particular flavour of torture. She'd rather suffer through a dulled Cruciatus Curse a few times over a sharp one all at once. What she couldn’t take much more of, though, was Bellatrix morphing into some semblance of her friends to cause her this pain. It had gone so far that Hermione would actually feel a cursed hint of relief when Bellatrix appeared, as opposed to Harry, or Ginny, or Ron. Bellatrix liked Ron the best. 

She’d been adding a moon opposite to her sun drawing when the door opened, and she scrambled back to the other side of the room. Someone was coming, and if the pattern made by the last bunch of tally marks were anything to go by then it should have been Malfoy. Bellatrix had been the last to visit, and, after discovering her memories of childhood ballet lessons, kept her dancing until she collapsed from exhaustion. 

But the footsteps were of a higher pitch than Malfoys expensive leather oxfords, and scraping and stomping toward her much faster than his usual gait. It was her, and she was angry. Hermione took a few deep breaths and tried to prepare herself for whatever was to come next. Before Hermione could even see her, thick cords emerged from thin air and wrapped themselves tight around her body, digging into her arms and restricting her throat. The tops of her feet drug the ground as she was lifted into the air and pulled forward. She was slammed into the ground as the ropes slithered away, leaving their burn marks in doing so. 

“That pathetic snivelling Snape thinks he can just go over my head,” Bellatrix mumbled, using her wand to lift Hermione up and dropped her on to the floor again. She looked down at Hermione and smiled her crazy, crooked smile. “I guess it’s your unlucky day, bitch.”

Bella smiled through her heaving breathing, her eyes glazed over in a crazed and devious pleasure. She’d taken most of her immediate, primal brute anger out on Hermione and was now back to a bit more refined form of cruelty. “On your hands and knees,” she commanded. 

Hermione tried to lift her chest from the floor but the deep ache in her lungs wouldn’t allow her. 

“Now!” Bellatrix growled, thrusting her wand toward the girl. Hermione lurched up in spite of herself, inhaling sharply at the pain. Bellatrix had taught her early on that there was more than one type of Imperius curse, most of which did not induce a hazy and serene state of mind but instead a civil war within the body; the muscles tearing themselves apart in a simultaneous attempt to both obey and reject the spell. She crawled onto her knees and fell on to her hands. 

“Now...carve your shame into the stone.” Bellatrix smiled, her tongue playing at her right canine. 

“I’m not ashamed,” Hermione’s voice didn’t even sound familiar, it was gritty, hoarse and muffled. Her tensed arm reluctantly stretched out before her. 

Bellatrix’s boot landed hard on her backside, kicking her down into the ground. “What was that? You filthy little ingrate!”

Hermione took a deep breath as she pushed herself up from the floor. She turned her head toward Bellatrix, locking eyes with her tormentor. “I will never be ashamed of what I am.” Her voice shook with pain but remained steady in defiant intent. 

A smile spread wide across Bellatrix’s face. “You will be.” 

Hermione’s arm shot out in front of her, her elbow dislocating from the force, and her fingers bet forward. She began to scratch at the floor, clearing a path in the grime and dirt in letters that spelled out the same vile word that scarred her flesh. She retraced the letters, over and over until the skin on her fingertips began to shed away. No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t stop, not even when the letters began to take on a red tint. 

“Oh, it does look good in red, doesn’t it? What a wonderful idea.” She punctuated her last word by violently slicing her wand through the air, a movement which echoed on Hermione’s leg. 

Hermione cried out as a cut opened up on her thigh, only to yell louder as her fingers moved to the wound, picking up the blood like paint on a paint brush. Her hand moved back to the floor, painting the letters an even darker shade of red. 

Bellatrix clicked her tongue. “Looks like that won’t be quite enough,” she cooed in mock worry, then laughed and cut through the skin on Hermione’s other leg.

**xxx**

The silver tray crashed to the floor, scattering all of the supplies Draco had so carefully gathered across the dungeon. Granger was splayed out in front of him, on her side with her arm outstretched above her head, her hand resting over the final letter of the slur. He didn’t need to see it to know what the word was. Her arms and legs were sliced up, blood stained, and crusted over. Blood splattered the floor around her, even pooling in small spots.

His eyes kept scanning the word; mentally tracing over the still damp but drying letters, each as big as his foot. Finally he forced himself to look away, to bend down and begin collecting up the things he dropped. He moved the supplies closer to her and kneeled beside her. She’d yet to even stir, though her eyes were open and she was gazing blankly in front of her. Unwilling to admit how scared he was, he gently touched his shaking fingers to her wrist. He found a weak pulse, and released a shameful breath of relief.

“Granger…” he whispered, trying to figure out where to put his hands next. Any place he touched would stain his palms with her blood, an ordeal he wasn’t looking forward to repeating. His hands hovered over her arms, her shoulders, searching for a safe landing. Her body swelled with breath as she inhaled, and shuddered with pain as she exhaled. She let out a whimper, something small and delicate, only audible because of the utter silence that filled the room. 

Draco kept looking at all of the blood. It was all hers, she’d lost so much - _How much could a girl her size lose before…_ His thoughts trailed off. He needed to help her, and he needed to stop being so damn weak about it. He grasped her arms, just below the matching slashes around her biceps, and lifted her upper body into his lap, using his legs to cradle her. He reached for a small vial, grateful that he thought to grab the Dittany, and removed the stopper. She winced as the liquid hit her wounds but made no other sound otherwise. He silently and diligently worked the cuts on her arms before moving down to her hands. Her fingertips froze him; her nails were cracked and lined with crusted blood, multiple layers of skin had been scraped away from each tip. He looked at his supplies, trying to figure out the best way to go about tending to the small but revolting wounds. Those were such sensitive nerves, they might never regrow. He didn’t want her fingertips numb forever. She should be able to feel Andromeda’s grandson’s skin someday. He reached for the gauze and with small movements from his wand cut them into ten small squares before soaking each one in Dittany. Carefully, he wrapped each finger and secured it with a bit of medical tape. 

After he finished with her upper body he moved to her legs, both of which bore numerous gashes that carved a curving river of blood from ankle to thigh. He started with the ankle, and thought for sure she’d put up at least a little resistance when he reached the one that rested high on her outer thigh, but she didn’t. His hand rested on her hip, wondering if his cool fingers brought some relief to the inflamed skin. She’d even stopped wincing when he applied the potion and bandage. Instead she sat motionless, holding whatever pose he put her in, and stared at the stone, at the horrible word written in her blood. She felt like a ragdoll. 

He kept glancing at her face as he worked, not entirely sure what he hoped to see. What started off as a slack, sorrowful expression steadily hardened, growing into one of fury and resolution. Draco couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in her mind, but he cut his thoughts short anytime they began to wander in that direction. It didn’t matter what she was thinking, what she was feeling - he had a job to do, and nothing more.

“I’m going to have to shower for an entire week to get your filthy blood off of me, Granger.” He said as he began clean up the supplies. He’d tried so hard for it to come out cold and harsh, but it fell out of his mouth like a half-hearted insult from someone trying desperately to fill shoes that were three sizes too big. Angry with himself, he turned his back to her to pick up the tray, but stopped short as she began to speak. 

“Growing up my parents had this really tall bookshelf in the living room,” she started, her voice cracking but still very much audible in the silence. “My mum kept her favourite book at the top, so I couldn’t reach it and tear it up.” 

Draco straightened up, but didn’t turn back around. 

“And then one day, when I was… Oh, I must have been four, I just decided that I wanted that book. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to read but I just wanted to hold it, to have my mother’s favourite book in my hand, to see what she loved so much about it. So...while she was in the kitchen, washing up and singing - she always used to sing when she did the dishes - I decided that was the perfect time to climb the shelf. I didn’t get very far, mind you, I fell off the third one. I fell, and I laid there on the carpet, looking up at the book, wanting it so very badly. So imagine my excitement when it moved, when it pulled itself from the shelf, tumbled slowly down in a defiance of gravity, and landed right next to me. I was so excited that I left it there and focused on another book. By the time my mum came round to check on me I was surrounded by the entire top row of books.”

She paused, as if she were savoring the moment. Draco didn’t know what to do. She’d not said one word to him the entire two weeks she’d been there and now she was sharing anecdotes with him? But she started up again before he could do anything. 

“When I was seven...I fell out of a tree I should have never been climbing. I could have broken an arm, or leg...or my back but I didn’t - because I stopped myself mere inches from the ground. And when I was nine, there was this horrible bully of a girl who constantly pushed me around and called me all sorts of mean names. Then one day, as she had me cornered and cowering before her she just stopped forming words and started to moo, like a cow. I - I was so afraid of myself after that, for so long I felt like a freak of nature. I couldn’t find anything in any of the books I read to explain any of the strange things that always seemed to happened to me.” Her pace picked up and the volume of her voice grew. 

“And then I received my Hogwarts letter and this lovely woman came to the door who finally had an answer for all of my questions. And I met other children who were just like me and I thought - I thought for one second that I’d finally found my place, that I’d finally found where I belonged. Everything was going to be different. I would never be an outcast again. And then... _you_.”

At that, Draco turned and was startled to find that she’d stood up and was facing him. He kept his emotions from his face. 

“You come along and I find out that apparently I still don’t belong,” her face twisted in anger and she reached for his face, “because of my blood? My blood?!” She ran her hands down his face, leaving her mark on his cheeks. He was too shocked to move, unable to do anything other than stare at her, outraged and slackjawed.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “Well there’s my blood, Malfoy.” She taunted. “Is it burning your skin? Can you feel it sinking into your body? Is it defiling you?! Are you suddenly less of a human being because of it?!” Hermione laughed, just a small chuckle but it was still enough to send goosebumps up his spine. There was poison in her words.

“You do know that your precious Dark Lord isn’t even a pureblood, don’t you? That he doesn’t actually care about blood status, not nearly as much as you do. He’s manipulating you, he’s manipulating all of you! All he cares about - the only thing he’s ever cared about - is absolute power! And do you really think things are going to get any better once he gets it? Look at how he’s treating your family - your father. Do you honestly believe that if he wins everything will suddenly be all right?” She stopped ranting long enough to read the expressions he couldn’t keep from his features. She looked at him with astonishment and realization. 

“You - you haven’t even thought that far out have you? You’ve just been doing what you're told, like a good little soldier! Oh...oh, that puts a lot of things into perspective. Do you know what it’s called when beliefs are systematically and forcibly put upon you?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “Brainwashing! You’ve been brainwashed your entire life. God...have you ever had an original thought? Have you ever once, just once, questioned anything? Have you ever held an opinion that wasn’t spoonfed to you by your cowardly bastard of a father?”

The muscles in Draco’s body had all been tensing up as she spoke, he’d been clamping his jaw so tightly that his teeth were grinding, but something in her insulting his father finally triggered a response within in him and in a second’s time he pulled out his wand and brandished it against her. “That’s enough out of you!” He roared, all of his anger spilling out and pushing his voice box into a primal growl of a response. 

His wand centimeters from her face, she smiled. “You think you’re so clever, Draco,” she said, his name slipping from her lips like it had always been there, “but you’re just a sad, little, obedient slave.” 

With a slight jerk of the wrist, he sent her to the ground. Though his intent was to send her crashing into the wall a meter or more behind her, it accumulated into nothing more than a slight push. All of the anger built up inside of him was not because of her, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that. His magic, or perhaps his conscience, wouldn’t let him take it out on her. He stormed out, leaving her on the floor and the tray behind. 

The paintings in his room knocked against the walls as he slammed his door behind him. He slammed his bathroom door, too, and turned the hot water on in the shower. The veins in his arms pulsed as he gripped the edges of the sink, he felt like he could rip it off of the wall. He stared at himself in the mirror; the dark bags under his eyes and his pale skin, how empty and hollow he looked - how he felt. He ran his fingers over the streaks of her blood running the length of his cheeks. He stared at his reflection until he no longer saw his face, but hers. The blood crusted into her eyebrows, her cracked lips and bloodied nose, her swollen jaw. Instead of bags under her eyes she had bruising and busted blood vessels. He saw death in her eyes. He saw her death, down in that dungeon at the hands of his aunt while he did nothing; he saw his death, quick and meaningless at the hands of Voldemort, his body left to rot where it lay because he meant absolutely nothing to the Dark Lord; he saw his father, stripped of every ounce of dignity and nobility and left to starve alone in the gutter; he saw his mother, spared from death by her sister but kept as a slave by the Dark Lord and left without anything to live for.

“Stop it…” He pulled himself away, closed his eyes but she was still there. “Stop it, stop it, STOP IT!” The mirror shattered and a sharp pain splintered through his fist. Small fragments of glass stuck in his knuckles as the blood spiraled down his wrists. Tears streamed his face as he pulled the glass from his skin and he only cried more once he finally stepped into the scalding shower.

**xxx**

Draco let a few hours pass before heading back to the dungeon. He knew he needed to get those supplies out of there before his aunt found out that he had left them, but his pride kept him hovering around the door. He pushed the door open, just a crack, but paused. Something was different; where he was usually met with heavy silence he instead heard soft singing. Granger was _singing_.

_“Moon river, wider than a mile_  
I'm crossing you in style some day  
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker  
Wherever you're going, I'm going your way.” 

Her voice, octaves higher than he’d ever heard it, cracked on certain notes and went flat on others but there was something soothing to it. This was not the first time she had coaxed these words out of her throat. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was a song her mum would sing. As he listened to her sad undertones the muscles in his face relaxed, his back fell to the wall, and his gaze drifted lightly downwards. He’d send a house elf down later, but all he wanted to do then was slide down to sit on the floor and listen.

_“Two drifters, off to see the world_  
There's such a lot of world to see  
We're after the same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend  
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooo sorry it's been so long. time really got away from me there. but, the chapter is here and it's a thousand+ words longer than normal so hopefully that helps? anyway, i hope it was worth it and i hope you like it. as always, comments and kudos are welcomed and loved!


	7. Seven

Hermione flinched at the sound as the door slammed. Alone again and in the eerie silence her mind began to race, to panic, to replay a jumbled-up montage of everything she’d just said to Malfoy. 

_“...precious Dark Lord isn’t even a pureblood…”_

_“... just a sad, little, obedient slave.”_

_“You’ve been brainwashed…”_

_“...there’s my blood, Malfoy.”_

_“...cowardly bastard of a father...”_

Her thoughts slowed, jumping from his father to her father, his glasses always slipping off his nose, the creases that formed between his eyebrows when he concentrated on something at work, the way he laughed at her mother’s corny jokes. Her mother. Her honeysuckle shampoo, her sigh when she could never find her gardening gloves. A calm washed over Hermione. It didn’t matter what she said, it didn’t matter where she was, it didn’t matter what happened to her. Her mother, her father - at least they were safe. If she focused with all of the energy available to her, calmed her thoughts and cleared her mind, she could even hear her mother’s familiar voice, wavering ever so slightly on the highest notes of her favourite song. She began to sing along with the ghost of her memories.

“Moon river, wider than a mile…”

**xxx**

Hermione stopped singing as the door finally opened, and the familiar footsteps - muffled yet deliberate - announced Malfoy’s presence. She sat against the wall directly in front of the stairs, legs crossed and shoulders slumped, her head resting on the stone. She had been waiting for a while now, and she had never known Malfoy to be indecisive. She’d watched his shadow moving beneath the door all day, pausing and pacing in front of it, and she couldn’t help but wonder what it was that he was doing. Of course there was always the option that it wasn’t just Malfoy in the hall - that it could have been any number of people just walking by - but it didn’t feel or even sound like that was the case. He’d been hovering around the door all day, but for what purpose?

He avoided looking at her as he walked down the stone steps, his height awkward in the cramped space. She kept her gaze on him, he didn’t even look towards her. He stopped at the bottom, almost squirming under his own skin, and Hermione watched him as his eyes went to every part of the dungeon except her and the awful, bloody word she was sitting on. She heard his breathing, shallow and uneven, and saw his fists clamped around white gauze and a few small potion bottles. For whatever reason, he was more uneasy today than she had ever seen him. Was there something else going on in the world outside of her captivity? Did the Order strike a blow significant enough to affect him like this? Or was it her, and the things she’d said?

“My birthday already? Malfoy you shouldn’t have.” Her voice was full of sarcasm and an amused defiance. After her raging monologue, keeping up the obstinate silence seemed a bit useless. He came back after that outburst, so certainly she could show a bit more fight than before. His head snapped toward her, their eyes locking. She studied his features, reading the anger he didn’t bother to, or possibly couldn’t manage to, hide on most of his face. His lips formed a tight line, the blood leaving them from the pressure, and his jaw tensed with the grinding of his teeth. But his eyes didn’t match, they weren’t angry at all - they were sad and confused. 

“Sitting on that one for a while, Granger?” His lackluster response surprised her. He surprised her again with a sigh, relaxing his body and bending at the knees as he lowered himself to the ground and laid out the healing supplies he had brought. He was always so methodical, arranging everything in the order he would need to use it. She recalled him in class, laying out his potions supplies the very same way and wondered if he needed to, to help him keep his focus.

She turned away as he began to slowly peel away her old bandages, letting out a hiss of pain as it pulled from her skin. He stopped, the brown and bloody gauze left hanging from her arm. She looked back, concerned.

“Why’d you stop, is -” He looked just as confused at his actions as she was. “Just keep going,” she urged, her voice low. He pulled at the bandage faster, with less regard for her pain than before. He should have known by now just how much she could take.

“Why don’t you use the Tergo spell, to remove some of the dried blood?” she suggested. He’d removed all of the bandages from one arm and was trying to clean her wounds out with a damp cloth. He stopped working the cloth but didn’t respond for a long moment. 

“I hadn’t thought of it.” He finally responded. 

“Well, you don’t have to use it. I just thought…” She let the sentence fall from her cracked lips. She just thought that he would rather use the spell than touch her, but for some reason that was hard to admit to him, the words refusing to come out and occupy the dungeon with them. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled, reaching in his coat pocket for his wand. He had managed to stop worrying that she would steal his wand, at some point he couldn’t quite identify. He held it out, hovering just away from a long gash. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t say anything else. Then, it dawned on Hermione.

“Do you...know the charm?” She saw his face harden and his eyes fall. “Remember it, I mean? It has been a few years…” Despite her previous jabs at him, she knew whatever thread there was connecting them was thin and fragile. Genuinely challenging his competency would not help her in the long run. She hated to admit it, but she knew she wouldn’t survive the dungeons without Malfoy.

His grip tightened on his wand as a tense silence fell between him. He didn’t know the spell - but he didn’t want to admit it.

“It’s just a...um, a point and cast - just Tergo,” she uttered, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, I know,” he spit, his words biting. Not to be outdone, and certainly not to be made to feel inadequate by her, he stubbornly pointed his wand at her wounds and without any words slipping from his lips the dried blood began to disappear. Hermione tried not to look surprised; it was a simple spell in its technical execution, he just hadn’t remembered the proper incantation or wand work. He usually was second only to her in their lessons, for the effort he neglected to put in. He cared, he just didn’t want anyone to notice.

He cleaned the rest of her wounds silently and efficiently, and when he was done he rushed to gather up everything and leave the dungeon. He couldn’t wait to be out of there and it couldn’t be any more obvious to her. Hermione sighed- he certainly wasn’t the only one. Sometimes she thought that she would survive this, that it would end and her friends would come for her- that escape would happen and that there was hope and truth and light still in this world. Those moments, however, were becoming more and more rare. The dominant, logical part of her brain knew she would die in this dungeon, and the inevitable torture that would come before then would make her wish for death even sooner. What scared Hermione more than anything she had managed to live through so far was the very thought that Draco Malfoy would be the last source of any small hint of kindness she would ever know.

**xxx**

Draco shut the door behind him and started towards his room. He only made it a few steps away from the door when he felt a sharp, almost bite-like pain on his wrist. He stretched his arm out to free his wrist from his sleeve, looking at the golden watch adorning it. The deep green snake settled back onto the bezel- where it normally resided when one wasn’t late for anything. It was five minutes past four. Draco was late, and that was so very unlike him.

“Damn, teatime.” He turned on his heels, heading now for the sitting room where his family took tea every day, precisely at four. He wasn’t much worried about his tardiness, as it was just supposed to be his parents there, until he rounded a corner to enter the sitting room and was surprised to see his aunt in the room with them. The night before, Aunt Bella had made certain that everyone in the manor knew that she was going away on the Dark Lord’s business, on a mission so important she couldn’t even bring someone else to polish her boots. Draco didn’t really want to think about what could have been so important- he knew all too well what a solo mission directly from the Dark Lord entailed. He was just thankful that she’d been absent all day and not privy to his utter inability to walk through the dungeon door. 

“So nice of you to finally join us,” Bella said, her words full of mock courtesy and her smile crooked. Draco lowered his eyes and took the chair next to his mother, who’d been eyeing him with sympathy. “I see that watch is doing you no good.” 

“My apologies, Aunt Bella,” he mumbled, as an elf shuffled toward him to fill his delicate, filigree-decorated cup. Taking his tea simple, hot and black, he lifted the cup to his lips only to jump when Bellatrix slapped a hand on the table beside her. 

“It’s a family heirloom! Your great-great grandfather had it specially made, then killed the wizard who made it- it’s one of a kind! And if you can’t be bothered-”

“He adores the watch, sister, I assure you,” Narcissa cut in, firm at first but softening towards the end, so as to sound more complacent. “But please, let’s just enjoy our tea.” 

Bellatrix eyed Draco with contempt, but said nothing more on the subject. Instead she turned her attention to his father. “So, Lucius, have you managed to do anything useful lately?”

As he sipped his tea, the voices of his family faded into a dull noise in the back of his mind, and although his eyes appeared to be fixated on the sugar bowl at the center of the carved table, he wasn’t actually focused on anything at all. He was only vaguely aware of his aunt’s animated movements across the room and the smell of the pastries in front of him went unregistered. He was physically present but mentally elsewhere - Draco’s body was in the parlour; but his mind was in the dungeons. 

The words which Granger so vehemently spat at him the previous night had yet to leave his head. They echoed through his mind, melded themselves with matching memories of his own. His mind and his memories were making Granger’s argument for her, backing up everything she had said to him with the most apt examples from his life. It was hurtful, but it hurt because she wasn’t exactly wrong. Not even close. His father, a broken shell of a man who had only returned to the Dark Lord’s command out of fear and the responsibility of keeping his family safe. His aunt, she ordered him to take Granger to the dungeons that day and he’d just done it. She told him to bandage her up, bring her water, gain her trust in the hopes that she’d give up information about Potter and he had just nodded and grabbed the gauze. The mark on his arm, the mark he’d been so ready to take - no questions asked, the mark that became heavier with each passing day. Voldemort’s words, his vision of the future - power for the purebloods, subjugate everyone else, muggles in their rightful place under wizards. Then what? What would happen next? 

A hand on his arm brought him crashing back to the present, out of his mind and back into the soft high back chair, perfectly placed for tea time. “Sorry?” He said, distantly aware that someone had said something, possibly to him. 

“Are you alright, dear? You haven’t touched the food.” Narcissa asked as she gently brushed his hair out of his eyes, stroking his forehead in a concealed attempt to check for a fever.

“And you were humming,” Bellatrix added, an annoyed sneer resting on her face. “I hate humming.” Nevermind that she did it so often herself. 

“Humming?” 

“Yes,” His mother said slowly, concern laced through her words. “It was a lovely tune though,” she added, as though it were some sort of compensation prize. 

“Could that have been what we heard you playing the other day?” his father asked.

No. What he was playing the other day was Chopin, the Nocturne in C Sharp Minor. What he’d been humming was something he had only just heard that morning, outside the dungeons below the manor. “Not quite,” he responded, and quickly followed with, “May I be excused?”

“Of course,” Narcissa acquiesced. Draco rose from his chair and hurried out of the room, fighting an uncomfortable wave of nausea. 

"That boy needs a firmer hand, if you ask me," Bellatrix mumbled, teacup moving toward her lips.

"Well, I didn't," Narcissa responded curtly. 

A hand staunchly on his abdomen, Draco hurried down the hall. He felt a burn in the back of his throat as his stomach turned on itself, bile rising to his esophagus. The hallway seemed to stretch and warp before him as he began to stumble. He moved through a doorway on his right, quickly into and through the kitchens and out onto the back lawn. He hurried out of the immediate area and rounded the hedge fence. Hidden from anyone peering through a window, he fell to his hands and knees, the heels of his hands pressing into the damp grass and supporting all of his weight. His stomach lurched but nothing came out. He heaved again, and again, producing nothing but bile-flavored spit. Sweating and short of breath, he fell over, rolling on to his back next to the small puddle of his saliva. He tried to regulate his breathing, tried to stop the world from spinning around him. 

Clouds dotted the grey-blue sky, a cool breeze ruffled the bushes around him, and somewhere in the distance a peacock cried out. The top of the manor peeked over the bushes, smoke rising from a few of its chimneys, and fish rippled in the pond just a few meters away. Nothing had changed, and yet everything was different. 

**xxx**

At dinner, Draco tried to ignore his mother's concerned glances as he did little more than push his food about on the plate. He kept quiet during the conversation, knowing he had nothing substantial to contribute and fearing any less-than-agreeable words which might pass his lips. Bellatrix left again shortly after the meal, on what must have been a less important task as she took a few perpetually grimey lackies with her- less established men with unimportant family names, who still needed supervision and guidance.

Draco waited until later that evening, until his parents retired to their room and the house elf's finished cleaning the kitchens to quietly prepare a plate. Water, roast, potatoes, and carrots sat next fresh gauze on the tray he carried. He stopped at the dungeon door; she was singing that song again. She stopped singing as he entered the room and he found her in her corner, legs stretched out before her and head coddled where the walls met. He sent a small light to the lantern above as he passed underneath it. 

"Um...here," he said, setting the tray down in front of her. He righted himself and waited for her to move. But she didn't. He stood there as the seconds ticked by, wondering what he was trying to prove as they did, what it was exactly that he'd been hoping for. The longer she stayed put the more and more he felt like a fool. He turned, deciding to remove himself from the situation before he embarrassed himself further. He'd send a house elf down for the tray later.

"Its Sunday, isn’t it?" she said, her voice small and frail. He stopped, halfway between her and the stairs, and waited for a few moments.”Thank you.”

He turned his head half toward her in a small nod, but kept his back to her. "Why do you keep singing?" He asked, a hoarse gravel in his throat, some foreign lump developing past his tongue.

He heard her sigh, and sniffle, but she didn't answer right away. "I guess...it just helps," she finally let out. He heard the tray move across the floor before leaving the dungeon. As he shut the door behind him and turned to head upstairs, he saw a shadow. Severus. He swallowed, steeled his mind, and, having no other choice of route if he wanted to get to his bedroom, headed towards him. 

"What were you doing down there?" Snape asked in the slow, suspicious tone he always seemed to have. 

Draco frowned. "Family business," he snapped, attempting to push past him, but Snape grabbed his arm and held tight. 

“What I told you last winter, that still stands - vow or no vow,” he whispered in a rushed and harsh tone. In his eyes, Draco saw urging concern and a fear of disappointment. 

He broke away from the stare, snatching his arm back. “I don’t need your help, or your protection.” He marched past Snape and up the stairs, beginning the walk to his bedroom. For a reason he didn’t care much to think about, it felt like a much longer distance than usual.

He entered his room only to see an elf puttering about around his bed. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen that particular one before, but then again, they all seemed to run together anyway. 

"What exactly do you think you’re doing?" He spat.

The house elf bowed and began edging out of the room, keeping its distance from Draco. "Just making Young Master's bed, Sir. Tolly is sorry for any inconvenience, Sir." 

“One of you made it this morning - get out of here!” 

“Apologies, Sir. Is very sorry, Sir.” 

Draco slammed the door in front of the elf as it continued apologizing with a growing intensity.

**xxx**

Late that night, Draco was pulled from his slumber by a piercing scream. The clock on his mantelpiece read sometime shortly before three in the morning. Confused and half-asleep, he waited for a second scream, but it did not come. The longer he waited the more nauseated he became, the more sweat beaded on his forehead. He threw the covers back and got up to cross the room where, at the far end, he opened the tall windows to let the night air stream in with the moonlight. As the breeze hit his sweat-dampened face, a chill crawled across his scalp. He stood there, listening.

Still, there was no scream. 

Had he dreamt it? Had his mind just made it up? He fell into one of the the two plushly upholstered wingback chairs flanking the fireplace and put his head in his hands. By the time the clock read four AM he’d still yet to hear another scream, and had resigned himself to the fact that he was just waiting for his aunt to barge into his room, shriek wildly, and send him to the dungeons. 

But she didn’t. 

He woke just after sunrise in the chair, chilled to the bone and with a sore neck. He showered and dressed in something that was acceptable but required minimal effort; slacks, a button down, and one of his more casual robes- no jacket, no belt, and shoes that hadn’t been shined in days. He took the long way to the breakfast table, telling himself that he just fancied a bit more of a stretch that morning, but it brought him right past the dungeon door. Silence. 

Breakfast wasn’t much louder, as neither his father or his aunt was there. He knew where his father was, but not so much with his aunt - and he didn’t want to ask. He had his suspicions but didn’t dare draw attention to his curiosity. Draco ate despite his utter lack of appetite, for his mother’s sake, and excused himself. 

He skipped lunch, choosing instead to spend time on the third floor with the piano. It was a chilly day outside, but there was some sunshine finding its way through the heavy glass windows. He played a few sloppy scales and missed more than a few keys of some basic warm ups before his found himself flowing gracefully through arpeggios and executing poignant appoggiaturas. Draco ran through every scale, starting over when he missed a note or wasn’t satisfied with the timing, a mental metronome criticizing any flaws. His hands stretched through octaves, alternating force as he practiced pressure control. Finally, when he felt as though he was ready to move on to truly playing, he let himself relax. There was pressure in the preparation, pressure in performance; but just to play for himself alone in a room frequented by no one else, it was just his hands and the keys. 

He played so slow at first he hadn’t realized what he’d been playing, but as he picked up speed the notes came together and formed the familiar, hauntingly beautiful melody. He stopped playing as his breath caught in his throat and stared at his fingers resting on the keys. He sighed, and kept playing.

**xxx**

Bellatrix was absent at dinner and Draco still couldn’t stomach eating much of anything.

**xxx**

Draco stared up at his bedroom ceiling, mentally naming the stars of every constellation, his fingers drumming anxiously on the plush blanket atop his bed. Four days. It had been four days and Bellatrix had spent more time in the dungeons than out of them, and not once had she called for him to “clean up the mess”. Four days of muffled screams echoing up to his room, of Bellatrix slamming doors and stomping around grumbling to herself, four days of knowing Granger was still alive only by his aunt’s foul mood and dungeon visits. And the screams, always the screams.

He swung his legs off the bed and got to his feet. It was midnight and he still hadn’t changed out of the day’s clothes, or even taken off his shoes for that matter. He paced the floor, the clock ticking quietly in the background, until a bang reverberated through the house. He opened his door and stepped into the hallway. He could hear Bellatrix growling with anger. He made his way down the hall and edged toward the staircase. 

Her sounds of frustration grew more distant as she stomped through the house. Another loud slam near the entry hall indicated that she'd left the manor. Without putting any thoughts into his actions his feet carried him swiftly down the hall and to the through the dungeon door. 

“Granger!” he called out, barreling down the stairs. He should have been embarrassed by his desperation but he didn't have the time to register his thoughts; Granger was at his chest, her hands clutching at his shirt and her panicked eyes wide with fear and overflowing with tears. 

“Did you tell her!?” she cried, her voice cracking. He hadn’t brought her water for four days, and Bellatrix certainly wouldn’t have thought to.

Draco grabbed her wrists as gently as his reactions would allow, but made no effort to move them. “What?” She tightened her grip, wrapping his shirt around her hands and pulling them closer together. His heart rate quickened and he felt short of breath. Her fear must have been sinking into him. 

“Please Draco,” she begged, resting her forehead on her clenched fists, on his hands around her wrists. “Please just tell her. I'll give her whatever she wants, just please let my parents go. Please, please.” She was sobbing, and collapsing. Draco had no choice but to guide her to the floor, lest he just let her fall. 

“Calm down, Granger. Breathe. You're not making any sense.” He started as she shuddered and sobbed in his lap. 

“Please don't hurt them,” she croaked. “I thought I did it right but they found them anyway.” 

“We don't have them,” he replied, confused as to why she would think they did. Whether or not he should have given up that bit of information when she was on the brink of giving up everything was shoved out of his mind by the need to figure out just what was wrong with her. She was so frantic that it was affecting him, too. 

She stopped shaking as much and sat up, a mixture of hope and confusion in her face. “What? But you just- you told me… You said they were right there.” She pointed toward the wall, indicating the dungeon next to hers. 

Draco looked from her to the wall and back again, sure she had finally lost it. “I haven’t told you anything - I haven't seen you four days.” He watched her expressions as she tried to make sense of what he’d said. 

“But you were just - and you said…” 

Draco put his hand to his mouth as he figured out what must have happened, a poor attempt at hiding his shock and disgust. “Bella,” he muttered. It was one thing that she tortured Granger, but to imitate him? The strange house elf made sense now, why she hadn’t called for him made sense. Bellatrix had used the manor’s stores of polyjuice to impersonate him, to do Merlin-knows-what to Hermione. She stared through him, slack-jawed. Had she heard him? He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “That wasn’t me.”

Her head tilted, as though she still wasn’t hearing him. Above them he heard what must have been his aunt slamming the door on her way back in. He jostled her, once, just to get her attention. “Granger, listen to me. That wasn’t me, okay? That wasn’t me, it’s possibly not going to be next time, and we don’t have your parents. They’re probably safe wherever you’ve hidden them away.”

He could see in her face that she was starting to come to, to calm down and hear what he was saying. “Bellatrix?” she asked, almost to herself. There was more commotion upstairs. His aunt was back, and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him exactly where she was headed to next. 

“Yes.” He answered, looking up to the ceiling. “I - I have to go. I shouldn’t be here.” He stood, but she grabbed his hand, stronger than he had expected. 

“Please.” Her voice was so low he almost didn’t hear it. He looked to her hand, then to her, his mouth agape as he searched for something to say. There was no time for this.

He took his hand back and darted up the stairs, closing the door quietly behind him before running to the other end of the hallway. He stopped on the upper landing of the stairs and dared a glance over the railing and around the corner just in time to see a streak of blonde hair the exact same shade as his and an all-too-familiar shadow duck into the dungeon. 

He sat on the top step, completely useless; helpless to his own intrusive thoughts, his own hope that what he said to her got through, that she didn't give in to Bellatrix. 

She screamed. 

He cried. _Why did I interfere?_

He retreated to his room, and cast a muffling charm on it. But the problem with a muffling charm is that it only muffles the noise, it doesn’t silence it. He kept picturing his aunt polyjuiced into him. What had she done to Granger as him? What did she say? Had Granger said anything to her, thinking she was confiding in him?

He threw up in his bathroom. 

There were more door slams, and Bellatrix's stomps echoed up the stairs. Draco started to panic. She was coming for him, he knew it. He tried to regulate his breathing and gain his composure before stepping into the hall, guarding his mind against the mental siege he knew would come. Better to face her head on than let her hunt for him. 

She was at the other end of the hallway, just off of the stairs, the last bit of blonde was fading from her hair and the appearance of her face returning to her own. "You!" she cried, picking up her pace. Before he knew it her hands were at his collar and his back against the wall. 

"Why hasn’t she broken!" She yelled, her face so close Draco could feel her saliva spray across his cheek. Draco opened his mouth to answer but Bellatrix pushed him further into the wall, pushing the breath out of him. "It's been nearly three weeks! No one has lasted this long before, and yet she still retains power over her mind! Why?!"

"I - I don't -" Draco tried to say, but she cut him off, throwing him to the floor. She pulled out the wand she had been using as a replacement, pointing to the center of his face. 

"I don't want to know what you don't know," she said, her voice changing from the raging howls she'd been using to something more steady, and much more dark. She took a few steps toward him. Propped up on his elbows behind him, he pushed with his feet as he tried to move back. "Tell me what you do know. About the mudblood, Potter, anything to break that little bitch."

"I-it's not like we were friends!" he protested, still trying to back up but running into the hall table instead, knocking off a doubtlessly expensive vase. Bellatrix postured her wand, a threat. "She...she needs to be the smartest person in the room...a know-it-all. And uh...the Weasley boy! They had - have? - a - a thing, or something. She cares about the...the house elves! And that um - that stupid hippogriff... Please, Aunt Bella, I don't know anything. I -" He felt a pressure in his head, but fought it off. He had no doubts that Bellatrix would have been more successful at entering his mind had she not been so angry and uncontrolled. 

"You dare close your mind to me, boy!" She bellowed, pulling her arm back to thrust a curse at him. "Cru-" 

"Expelliarmus!" 

Bellatrix's wand flew from her hand and Draco's head fell to the floor with relief, his breath heavy. Bellatrix turned to face her sister, who's own substitute wand was trained on her. 

"If you ever raise a wand against my son again, I promise you it will be the last thing you do." 

They held a firm gaze, tensely maintaining eye contact until finally Narcissa held her arm out, hand clasped around Bellatrix's wand. Bellatrix moved around Narcissa, snatching the wand as she passed in a whirlwind, leaving the Malfoys alone in the hall. Narcissa turned her attention to her only child, still disheveled and frightened on the floor. 

"Draco," she said softly, moving towards him. He scrambled to his feet, she reached to brush his hair back. 

"I'm fine," he snapped, pulling his head back and moving away from her. He darted into his room and slammed the door, quickly casting wards. There was a rage inside of him, something that had been bubbling just beneath the surface for a long time that was now boiling over. He ripped the covers from his bed and shredded the seam of his goose down pillow, sending feathers everywhere. He threw one of the chairs to the floor and pulled the curtains from the walls. He wanted to destroy, to obliterate everything in his path; his room, his home, his self. 

His tantrum only stopped when his foot met with a small, purple beaded bag. He stopped, his chest heaving, as the bag landed in the middle of his room. Granger’s bag, he’d forgotten all about it; it had been sitting in his room the whole time, against the wall, inconspicuous. Beginning to calm down, he fell to his knees before it. He pulled at the strings and turned it over. A few empty vials spilled out along with a couple of knuts and some small bottles of miscellaneous potions ingredients. The bag felt empty but when he let it fall back to the ground he heard what sounded like more stuff moving around. 

"Merlin, Granger," he mumbled as he reached his hand in only to find the his whole arm could fit and still not touch the bottom of the bag. He pulled more things out; books, a blanket, and a cauldron. He pulled out clothes, what looked like both men’s and women's, and a handful of plastic wrapped rectangles that read 'granola'. 

He looked around at everything he'd pulled out, all of her things that were surrounding him. He scoffed, half laughing at the three knuts on the ground. There was nothing you could get for three knuts. But just as he was about to move his attention elsewhere, something about them caught his eye. 

Lifting one to get a better look he realized that they only looked like knuts. Instead of the relief that traditionally adorns the face of a knut, the one in his hand depicted the profile of a man wearing a crown of leaves, and in place of a serial number the inscription read 'Gaius Julius Caesar'. He picked up another one only to find that it had still a different image; this one of a man with long hair tied at the neck and an inscription reading 'Beowulf'. He furrowed his brow and, dropping the first two to the ground, picked up the final non-knut, holding it flat in his palm. 

"Athena?" He mumbled, reading the name around a profile of a woman with long, wavy hair wearing an odd sort of helmet. He turned the coin over. The back side showed an owl, surrounded by the word Glaukopis. He flipped the coin again, studying it, and then once more. Glaukopis - Athena, something in those names struck a chord within him but he couldn't place them. He sighed - they were probably just a dumb muggle good luck charm, or something. 

He dropped the coin back into the bag before noticing the warmth that had begun to radiate from it. He began to shove everything back inside, trying hard not to be impressed at the size of the extension charm or the fact that it was completely undetectable. Tossing the bag back to the wall, he realized just how tired he was, and how much his rage-induced fit had taken out of him. 

He'd only just fallen asleep when there came a knock on his door. Annoyed, he opened the door to reveal an elf holding a tray. There was fruit, water, even tea; and there was a note. 

"It's time you start pulling your weight in this endeavor, dear nephew."

He sighed and took the tray. He didn't hesitate at the door, or take his time down the stairs. She was standing huddled in the corner, hugging herself and shivering, eyeing him from behind her hair. She didn’t look any worse off than his last visit, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t internal damage. He walked closer, and set the tray down next to her. She flinched away. 

“It’s okay. It’s really me,” he heard himself say as he stepped closer still, his hand starting to move up toward her. But he stopped, realizing what he said - wondering why that mattered to her at all, why his presence would ever make her feel okay. It was a stupid thing to say. He looked away from her, and turned to move away. Her hand caught his wrist and, surprised, he turned back. She was staring at him, looking from his eyes to his jaw to his shoulders. 

“You smell better than she does,” Hermione said, her voice all but broken. She let go of his wrist and put her hands at the wall behind her, trying to slowly guide herself to the floor. When Draco saw the pain in her face his hands went to her elbows, helping her down. He sat as well, next to her but not too close. 

A still silence filled the air and tension hung between them as the minutes crawled by. Draco wondered what she was thinking, but fought back the urge to ask. It was none of his business, and he had no right to know. If Bella’s outburst before was anything to go by, anything Granger told him would be a risk for them both. Still, the longer they sat there, mutely staring at the food, the harder it became for him to keep quiet. He was just about to break the silence when he heard her begin to cry. His instinct was to look at her but he diverted his eyes to the floor, he knew he wouldn't want to be looked at if he was crying. She wasn’t that much unlike him in her pride. He couldn't help but peek over, though, as his arms drew to his sides in search of a purpose. Options ran through his head; should he leave? Stay? Should he say something? Or should he -

His thoughts were cut short when her head fell to his shoulder. He looked down, her hands were covering her face and her legs pulled up; she didn't seem to be aware of herself at all. He moved his arm, bringing it above her shoulders and hovering it above her before awkwardly resting it around her upper back. She moved in closer, and her sobs grew more violent. 

This is it, he thought. It was the moment Bellatrix had been telling him to wait for. If he could figure out just how to play it, he could get information from her. She was crying in his arms, all of her walls were down, she had at least some trust in him - it would be easy. He could figure out where Potter was, or what he was trying to do. It would bring him closer to the Dark Lord's good graces, give him a better position in the rankings, possibly allow him to help his father and redeem the stature he had cost his family. But Draco felt that burn in the back of his throat, his trachea constricting, as his last excuse for a meal threatened to rise. The reality of the situation had finally set in. 

Once she got what she wanted from her, Bellatrix would kill Hermione. 

His other arm wrapped around her, pulling her closer. She collapsed further into his side, allowing him to do so. When was the last time he was this close to someone who wasn’t his family?

"Bellatrix," he started, still not exactly sure what the next words out his mouth would be. "She- she wants me to use your...vulnerability...to gain your trust." He felt her stiffen in his arms, but he kept talking, kept holding her. "She wants me to use that trust to get information." 

She sat up, starting to pull away. Her sobs subsided, though he still felt her struggling to regain control of her breath. 

"I’ve been told to... manipulate you this entire time so that you will - so you’ll break easier and give up Potter.” He finally looked at her. She sniffled, and he read her confusion on her face. 

“Why - “ She tried, but her voice only croaked. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Why are you telling me this?” 

He sighed and sat up, turning more towards her. “Because I know you won’t give up.” He looked to her, unable to stop the moisture from brimming in his eyes, hoping she couldn’t see in the dim light of the dungeon. Then, for the first time in a long time, he spoke a deep, personal truth. “And because... I don’t want you to.”


	8. Eight

Shell Cottage was blissfully quiet in the lonely hours before dawn. It was a peaceful morning, and nearly everyone in the safe house was asleep. Fleur sat in a stray chair just outside the kitchen door, a cup of tea in her hands and her face towards the horizon. It was an old chair, a little creaky, but comfortable in its age; her mother had sent it from the home where she and Gabrielle had grown up. A few seagulls flew overhead as she took a warming sip from her cup. The waves were gentle this morning, like the calm before a mighty spring storm. It wasn’t unusual for her to be up so early. Bill was prone to nightmares, after which he was able to go back to sleep but she was not. She didn’t mind, though. In fact, she usually enjoyed her time alone. As the sun began to creep over the water, she heard the door behind her open and close. Her solitude had ended, and the day was truly beginning.

 

“What are you doing out here?” Ron asked, yawning, the sleep still thick in his voice. “It’s so early.”

 

“Watching ze sunrise,” Fleur replied. She didn't need to ask why he was up; he'd been sleeping so little that he always seemed to be awake but exhausted. She stood. “‘ere, sit. I will make you some tea.” She put a hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the chair. He yawned again and reached to rub his eyes. As she opened the door a small orange fluffball darted out and settled at Ron’s feet.

 

“Zat cat, ‘e ‘as not left your side since ‘e arrived.”

 

Ron sighed and looked down at Crookshanks. “Yeah,” he grumbled. The cat had shown up at the cottage just a few days before; but where he had been until then could only be guessed at. Although it was a little difficult for Ron at first, having Hermione’s beloved half-kneazle around, and he still wasn't completely sure he liked the ugly thing; he had to admit that it was nice to be able to seek some small solace with the greatest reminder he had left of Hermione.  

 

After making more tea, for both herself and her brother-in-law, Fleur brought out another chair and the two of them watched the sun rise into the sky.

 

“How’s the polyjuice going?” Ron asked. She had begun to brew the potion within hours of the meeting of the Order, not wanting to waste a moment of precious time.

 

“Well. We ‘ave just over a week left and it should be done.” Fleur responded, reaching down to scratch the cat behind the ears.

 

It wasn’t long before the cottage was back to its usual hum of activity, as a safe house holding so many people would always be. Spirits might be low, but the sheer number of bodies was high, and the companionship of old friends brought some laughter to otherwise banal tasks. Luna helped to prepare and serve breakfast while Bill and Dean helped with the clean up. Harry and Ginny showed up just in time to nick a piece of toast, and Griphook didn't come down at all.

 

That afternoon, Remus showed up with pictures of Teddy in hand. “Dora went a little crazy with the camera.” He chuckled, exhausted but enthralled.

 

“Oh! You caught his hair changing color!” Luna exclaimed.  

 

Dinner was a casual affair, with most everyone choosing to eat in the living room. They had finally reached a point where the dining room couldn’t reasonably contain everyone who was residing at the safehouse, and the living room had enough space with the benefit of additional comfort. The embers from the fire were burning low in the fireplace and the coffee table was cluttered with empty plates; the conversation took its inevitable turn toward the plan to break into Gringotts. It was a mess, what with people talking over one another and competing ideas just getting spoken louder. Harry had half a mind to just be done with the deliberation and sneak off in the middle of the night, but it hadn’t panned out all that well  for him in the past. He’d long since learned that he was better off with the support of his friends than without.

 

“I still think that -” Ron started, but Harry cut in.

 

“I _know_ , Ron, but -”

 

Fleur sighed and stood, reaching for the plates on the table. She'd heard that argument one too many times and she wasn't about to sit through it again. Luna took a cue from Fleur and she too stood to start clearing the dishes.

 

"I just couldn't listen to it again." Fleur said to Luna as they entered the kitchen. "'Zey will never settle on anyzing at zis rate."

 

Luna smiled understandingly and set the dishes in the sink.

 

"Zere are still a few more cups." Fleur turned on the water and Luna nodded, leaving to retrieve them.

 

"Face it! I'm not just the only option, I’m the _best_ option!" Ginny insisted, almost yelling at her brother.

 

Luna wove around her friend and to the other side of the room, where the fire was slowly burning out in the firebox, radiating a heat she could feel somewhere deeper than her bones. She picked up the last glass on the coffee table, then moved to the fireplace. Just as she began to collect the glasses left behind there, Crookshanks leapt onto the mantle.

 

"Excuse me, fluffy little sir. You’ve startled me," Luna pet him with a soothing smile on her face. He pushed his head into her hands and purred as she did so, but mewed insistently as soon as she stopped to pick up the other cups. "I can't stand here all day, you know, you’re not the only one who needs me" she said, but smiled even wider and ran her hand over him again.

 

He meowed again when she stopped, but also started to paw at something small in front of him, maybe a bottlecap one of the boys had forgotten about. He meowed again, and knocked it off onto the floor.

 

"Well that was very rude," Luna scolded, though it was still probably the most polite scolding the cat had ever received. She put the dirty cups back on top of the fireplace and bent her lithe frame to pick up what he'd dropped. She swallowed, _hard_ , when she realized what exactly it was Crookshanks had been playing with.

 

A coin; the shape, size, and color of a knut, but with an imprint of the goddess Athena. "Oh Crookshanks," Luna cooed. Her heart ached for the feline, who was obviously missing Hermione. She felt a deep sadness rising in her because at least humans could comprehend death, and she knew that Crookshanks would never really know what happened to his companion. She moved to pick up the cat, but instead let out a yelp when the coin grew unmistakably hot in her palm. It clattered to the floor and she picked it back up, quickly placing on the wood of the mantle.

 

Crookshanks meowed, louder still..

 

She stared at the coin. She knew what it was, what it _did_. There were six coins, two for each Harry, Ron, and Hermione. With Shell Cottage being the primary meeting point of the Order, Bill kept a set of three, while the other three had taken the corresponding set with them on their hunt for the horcruxes. The Order had taken a cue from the DA coins and Sirius’ mirror, conjuring them up months ago as a subtle way for the three of them to signal for help. Bill's were on forgotten on top of the fireplace now, because Hermione had all three of theirs in her bag when she was taken, rendering his coins useless.

 

And yet, Luna was staring at Hermione's activated coin.

 

"Guys," she started, but her voice was low and much too meek. "Guys," she tried again, louder, but there was too much commotion. Finally, she turned away from the fireplace and projected her voice in their direction. "GUYS!"

 

That got everyone's attention. Fleur even came in from the kitchen, plate still in hand. It was unlike Luna to be that loud, let alone that demanding of anyone. Luna reached behind her and, with her hand covered in her sleeve, picked up the coin. She marched over and set it in the center of the coffee table.

 

"It's hot."

 

The plate shattered on the ground. Ron stood, unsure of what to do with himself, and pointed at the coin.

 

"That's not hot," he said. "It can't be hot." He slapped his hand on to it and picked it up, holding it tight in his fist. His eyes closed in pain as he let it drop. He'd have a small burn, but nothing a healing salve wouldn't fix. Dean left for the bathroom for a bandage.

 

"It's hot," he said, awed.

 

"Does this mean she's alive?" Ginny asked, her voice full of hope. She managed to say what they were all afraid to think.

 

"It could be a trap," Bill said, cautiously.

 

"How?" Ron asked.

 

"Bill's right," Remus started, "they could have gone through her bag and found it."

 

"But that's why we made it so specific in the first place!" Harry said. "Three turns, in the palm of your hand, heads - tails - heads - tails, when you need help."

 

"This wasn't an accident! It couldn’t be an accident." Ginny added, desperate to believe that her best friend was alive. Remus buried his face in his hands.

 

"It doesn't matter!" Bill said, his booming voice taking command of the situation. "Because even if it's _not_ a trap- we can't just go charging into Malfoy bloody Manor with our wands half drawn and no plan. We're going to pull ourselves together, and think this out."

 

Dean returned with medical supplies and took a seat next to Ron. Letting his palm fall open, Ron’s face was stoic and his glare was fixated on the coin on the floor.

 

"Done," Dean mumbled as he set aside the healing salve, but Ron didn't move. “I’m done now, Ron.” Dean sighed as he leaned over to pluck the coin from the floor and put it on the coffee table. "It's cooled now," he said. Ron didn't reply, he just moved his gaze back to the coin. Dean left, hoping to be of help elsewhere.

 

-

 

Bill and Fleur stood in the kitchen. After Bill helped Fleur clean up the broken glass in the doorway they finished the dishes together, Fleur muttering in her native French the whole time.

 

"Je ne voudrais penser jamais...je ne voudrais croire pas. Comment pourrait ce soit? Qu'allons-nous faire?" The clean plates fell heavily on to the drying rack. It wasn’t that Fleur was being rough or erratic with her movement, but that she was feeling so raw and it was flowing through her fingertips.

 

"Fleur, _Fleur,_ mon trésor," Bill said, a hand on her arm, turning her to face him. "We'll figure it out, okay? Ça ira, Je t'aime. On est ensemble." Fleur nodded, even smiled a bit at Bill’s French, and Bill kissed her forehead gently, trying to give her whatever strength he could spare knowing full well she had more than he did anyway. "I'll finish these, you can go check on the potion."

 

-

 

Harry and Ginny sat in the living room. He tried to calm her, but her leg wouldn't stop bouncing and she bit at her fingernails. She'd started to come to terms with her friend’s death, started to figure out how she would handle it; knew that she would do whatever it took to make sure it wasn't in vain. She had a goal, and she was determined. But the coin shattered everything. All she could think about was that Hermione had been alive the whole time. All she could do was maths- almost two weeks; or thirteen days, or three hundred and twelve hours, or one thousand four hundred and forty minutes, or eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds - all at the mercy of Death Eaters.

 

"Oh Merlin," she croaked, tears staining her cheeks. Harry pulled her in closer. He didn't know what else to do, other than be there for her. He knew he should have something to say but the only thing he could get his mind to focus on was coming up with a plan to get Hermione out of there.

 

_Disguises? Could they use their polyjuice to get Hermione back, instead of the Gringotts assault? Someone could change into Bellatrix, start ordering people around, and when they came to the real Bellatrix no one would know who was who; it could be enough distraction to get Hermione out._ But then Harry remembered just how vicious Bellatrix was; she'd kill any imposter right on sight. He couldn’t risk his friends, he had promised himself he was going to protect them.

 

But what else could they do?

 

-

 

Luna stepped outside into the fresh air. She let the ocean mist kiss her face and mingle in with the tears that were slowly trickling down her cheeks. Luna knew how to handle death; death is a part of life, and without death life loses its meaning, no one can escape death. But coming back from the dead? Having something that was so concrete just melt into the sand? She didn't know how to deal with that.

 

She heard footsteps behind her.

 

"This is all my fault." It was Remus. He stopped beside her, his look of utter helplessness and the wind whipping his hair into his face combined to reveal a man who looked much younger and smaller than he was. "How could I have trusted him?"

 

Luna knew he was speaking to himself because she could barely hear him over the wind, but she responded anyway. "Trusted who?"

 

Remus wiped his nose with a threadbare coat sleeve and sniffled. "Severus told me months ago that -" He stopped, drawing a shaky breath. "I knew a time would eventually come where it would no longer be safe for him to play both sides. I knew he'd have to prove himself to that awful excuse for a man but... It was him who told me of Hermione's death and I - I believed him. I thought, surely he risked enough to tell me and I could think of no reason for him to lie." It was getting harder for him to speak, so he stopped. The two of them stood in silence, watching the waves of the ocean crash along the shoreline.

 

-

 

Ron stared at the coin, trying to make sense of the unexpected surge of both rage and gratitude that was flowing through his veins. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair he sat in, leaving indentations in the upholstery. He'd wanted to go back for her. He'd told them to go back for her. If they had just done what he said she'd be sitting right beside him. If he had just made them listen. Everything she had suffered at the hands of the Death Eaters was because he couldn’t convince his friends and family to follow him. He had failed her again and again and even though he told himself she would never forgive him, he knew that was a lie. He was never going to forgive _himself_.

 

-

 

It was late into the night before everyone reconvened. They gathered around the rarely used dining room table, cramming as many anxious bodies into the space as possible. The coin was placed unceremoniously  on the center of the table; along with a batch of fresh parchment, quills, and ink. Having taken some time to reconcile their minds to the possibility that their friend was alive, they were ready to discuss the likelihood of her rescue.

 

"So, we're working of the assumption that Hermione is alive and still in Malfoy Manor," Remus said, standing at the head of the table, his weight pushing into the palms of his hands on the worn and down wooden surface.

 

"Why wouldn't she be?" Dean asked.

 

"A myriad of reasons," Bill began, but Ron cut him off.

 

"Can we just skip those," he said more than asked, squeezing the hard words past his lips; the muscles in his body tensing involuntarily.

 

Dean mumbled an apology as Luna sympathetically squeezed his hand, her pale skin a stark contrast to his darker hands.

 

Everyone started throwing out ideas, people were talking over one another, and nothing was getting done; it was just like the Gringotts plan all over again. The problem was that they didn’t really have a leader. Sure, there were those respected for their seniority in the organization and for their knowledge and experience- but no one had stood up to definitively take the position. After Dumbledore’s death, however,  they had started to look to Harry for some of this strength. But Harry remained silent. Most of what they were suggesting he had already considered while consoling Ginny earlier, so he just let them catch up while he thought of more. They wouldn’t listen to him if he tried to force them to think what he already worked through.

 

"Kreacher," he mumbled, a plan coming to mind. It was a longshot, a terribly abusive plan that Hermione would definitely not approve of- but it might be their best chance at success. Ginny, the only one who heard him, looked his way.

 

"What?" she asked, her head dipping closer to him, trying to hear him over the competing voices.

 

"Kreacher," he repeated, louder this time, drawing out of his shell.

 

"Shut it!" Ginny called, rising from her chair. "Harry's got something." She sat back down and nudged his arm. He stood.

 

"Kreacher - he's a Black family house elf...and Malfoy’s mum's a Black, right?"

 

Remus held up a finger, catching on to Harry’s train of thought. "Yes.” He paused for a moment, letting his thoughts fall into place. “Yes, and Bellatrix now resides in the house as well, so Blacks outnumber Malfoys, especially if you count Draco as only half a Malfoy."

 

"So what if he can get past the Manor’s wards?" Harry asked.

 

"And what if 'e can not? We just let ‘im die?" Fleur countered.

 

"We test him, slowly. We control the situation for once." Ron said, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the meeting.

 

"Okay, how do we do that?" Ginny asked, but Ron didn't have an answer.

 

"In stages," Bill said. He thought for a few more moments before he continued speaking. "We send him in, just outside of the fence, on the side of the house. He pops in, sees if an alarm sounds, and pops back. Even if an alarm does sound, he'd be gone long before they ever got to the outer perimeter." All eyes were on Bill. "If there's no alarm, we send him in again; this time just inside the fence. Same deal; in and out. We move him closer and closer until he's in the house. Then we'll know if he can get in or not."

 

"We'll have to word our commands carefully," Harry said, remembering loopholes Kreacher had previously found in his orders.

 

"What if he doesn’t cooperate?" Ron asked.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"What if he does all of that...testing, and when you send him in to get her he still finds a loophole - alerting them to our plans and putting her in even more danger."

 

The room grew quiet with thought. It was a terrible notion, but it was very possible. Kreacher was a wholly reluctant individual, after all, and they knew it all too well.

 

"I can with him, keep him in line." Ron said.

 

"No you bloody won’t!" Ginny exclaimed, a hand going to her brother's arm. He snatched it from her grasp.

 

"Yes I will! It's the only way to make sure she's safe."

 

"Well if you go, I go.," she said, crossing her arms with determination.

 

"No," Both Ron and Bill roared.

 

"Then I'll go," Harry said.

 

"No," Remus spoke sharply. "We can't risk that."

 

"Zen I will go," Fleur said, holding her head high. Bill looked down to her, but she turned her head stubbornly, refusing to argue with him.

 

"I'll go," Dean said, leaving no room for argument.

 

"Me too," Luna chimed in, her voice soft as ever, yet still firm.

 

Ron felt a lump in his throat as his friends all volunteered to accompany him into a veritable snake pit. The air was thick as everyone adjusted to the idea of what they'd just volunteered for.

 

“Well, if we’re doing this,” Bill started, metaphorically throwing his hat in the ring while actually reaching for some parchment and a quill, “we might as well make it count.”

 

**xxx**

 

Hermione stared at Draco, her mind trying to process what he'd just said as she searched his face for the answers. Had he really just given her that information? Had _he_ really just told _her_ not to give up? His eyes were glued to the floor, his breathing irregular, his nervous heartbeat nearly echoing in the silent dungeon. Was he regretting what he said? Had he been told to say it? Why did he say it? What did he mean?

 

Slowly, she put her hand out, her arm shaking weakly as she reached for his hand. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, softer than a breeze, and his eyes flickered to hers. He didn't flinch, didn't look away. She held his gaze, searching for any hint of the truth.

 

What she saw was pain and fear, and an emptiness deep within him.

 

She gasped slightly when he pulled his hand away from her and stood up. She moved to wipe her damp cheeks and he wiped his own eyes and disguised a sniffle, reaching for the tray and heading for the door. She fell back onto the wall as the door slammed shut, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

 

**xxx**

 

The next morning, grey clouds threatened a heavy, spring rain overhead as Severus Snape took great strides up the stone path leading to the main entrance of Malfoy Manor, his black robes billowing behind him in the wind. He'd almost made it to the front steps when he detected a sudden presence; an odd one that did not feel entirely human. He paused, and took a few steps back, scanning first the perimeter of the front of the house and then moving out towards the lawn and the fence lines. It wasn't long before his eyes landed on a familiar large-eared, hook-nosed, hump-backed house elf standing in a corner just inside the fence.

 

The house elf was staring, waiting to catch Severus' gaze. They locked eyes and, ever so slightly, the elf nodded, looking perhaps more grim than usual. Severus barely had time to register the nod when the elf snapped its fingers and vanished. His mind raced to process what he had just seen, the dots connecting themselves. Severus hurried into the house.

 

**xxx**

 

Draco stood outside of the dungeon door, thinking somewhere in the back of his mind that he was surely wearing down the grain in the wood floor with all of his pacing. He'd spent the night, and the first half of the day, trying to understand what he'd done and what he was going to do next. He still hadn’t quite figured it out and yet he found himself going to her again, with not even a tray of medical supplies for an excuse.

 

His fingers went to the knuckles of his other hand,where her skin had touched his. He didn’t feel the urge to scrub off layers and layers of his skin like he thought he would, it just felt _different_ \- like the ghost of a forgotten memory.

 

Just as he reached for the handle of the door he heard his name, sounding urgently from the other end of the hall. He looked to find Severus almost barreling toward him, a panic in his movement that Draco had rarely seen before.

 

"Come with me," Snape said, his voice a harsh whisper as he grabbed Draco by the elbow and pulled him along.

 

Draco fighting to pull his arm back. "Get off of me, you-"

 

"Draco, we do not have time for this!" Snape looked around, the agitation clear on his face. This was not the time and place, this was not the way Severus wanted to have this conversation. He pulled the boy into the nearest room, wordlessly securing the space around them.

 

"Get your hands off of me!" Draco demanded. He reached for the door but Snape intercepted him and pulled out his wand.

 

"Silencio," he muttered. Draco tried to protest, but no sound could pass his lips. He stepped toward Snape and reached for his own wand, but Snape put his arm up and pushed the boy against the wall.

 

"I told you, we do not have time for this! This is urgent and I need you to stop acting like an insolent child for once in your damned, over-privileged life."

 

Draco had never seen Snape so angry, not when it was directed at him anyway. He swallowed, and nodded. Snape stepped away, releasing Draco, and began to throw up a few additional charms to prevent any eavesdropping. He turned back to Draco and focused his intense gaze at him.

 

"The Order is planning something. I’m uncertain as to what or when, but it’s coming and it will be soon.”

 

Draco opened his mouth to speak again, but couldn't. Snape, sensing that he'd scared at least a little sense into the boy, removed the charm and Draco cleared his throat before asking, "How can you be so certain?"

 

" _Nevermind_ how. All you need to know is that I am risking my _life_ to tell you this information… and to give you this." Snape reached into his robes and pulled out a wand that was not his. It was a light-coloured wood, carved to look as though vines were twisting themselves around the handle.

 

“Is that-”

 

“Yes.” Snape said, pressing the wand into Draco’s chest. Draco’s hand curled around the wood and his gaze fell, feeling the weight of being entrusted with something so valuable to another witch or wizard. Snape’s hand weighed heavy on his shoulder. “If my assumptions are even partially correct, you may have need of this soon.”

 

Draco tried to push the wand back to Snape. “No.” He cleared his throat. “No- I don’t know what you’re planning but I- I don’t want this. This is- I don’t know why you would think I care-”

 

A pressure filled Draco’s head and this time he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, fight it. He reeled as Snape filtered through his memories, capturing snippets of his ongoing internal struggle. He pushed back as Snape saw his sleepless nights and the lack of appetite that often caused him to leave behind full plates at the dinner table; fought against granting him access to memories of him pacing back and forth in front of the dungeon door, of him sitting against it to listen to her sing. But he felt as though his breath was ripped from his lungs when Snape stopped on her face, bloodied, swollen, and bruised. With her face at the forefront of his mind, he stopped resisting and his back fell to the wall behind him, his head following with a thud and his knees buckling but not quite giving out, thanks to rusty yet still fairly toned quidditch muscles. He inhaled deeply, letting his helplessness envelope him with a shaky exhale. Snape saw everything; sneaking her better food, holding her, crying over her, telling her that they didn’t have her parents, telling her _everything_ , and, finally, telling her not to give up. Draco almost collapsed when Snape released his mind.

 

“It’s time you stopped trying to fool yourself, Draco.”

 

**xxx**

 

Draco paced the polished floorboards of his bedroom, waiting for the inevitable knock at his door. Everything about him was uncharacteristically  disheveled, from his hair to his unbuttoned shirt collar, to his left shoe that he’d yet to retie. He stopped walking and stared at the open dresser drawer into which he had placed her wand, alongside the purple, beaded bag. It had been a full day since Severus had given it to him and he’d spent the night listening to Hermione’s screams once again, using every ounce of self-control he had to keep himself from barging down there and stopping his aunt at wand-point. Instead he focused all his strength on plotting, on figuring out just what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. He knew Severus was right in pointing out that he’d been fooling himself; and once he made the decision to stop doing so he felt as if a weight had vanished from his person. He still wasn’t sure about a lot of things, and he still didn’t know what to do about it, but he knew that the things happening in his home weren’t _right_ , that it was possible that the makeup of a wizard’s blood meant a lot less than he had been raised to believe, and that the Dark Lord was not someone to place unwavering faith in. Unfortunately, despite his night of pacing and plotting, he still couldn’t think of a substantial plan; he still couldn’t figure out how to guarantee the safety of himself, of his family, and of Hermione all at once. And Merlin help him if he hoped he wouldn't have to choose.

 

The knock finally came.

 

He grabbed her wand from the centuries-old dresser and slid it into his coat pocket, right next to his own, then stuffed the bag into a lower pocket before opening the door. He still didn't know what he was going to do, but he knew he needed to be prepared for the worst. Severus had told him that something could happen at any time. He took the tray, already stocked with everything he’d need, and pushed passed the small house elf who’d handed it to him.

 

He stopped at the heavy wooden door, took a deep breath, and opened it, wondering how many times he would see those dungeon stairs again.

 

She was on the floor in her corner, stretched out and facing the wall. As he walked closer he saw her shiver and couldn’t help but wish he could bring her a blanket.

 

“Granger,” he said, his voice rough and his throat dry, but she didn’t acknowledge him. He set the tray down and moved to the floor beside her. He heard her inhale sharply and watched her shudder as she exhaled. His hands went to his coat pocket, his fingers grazing her wand as he reached for his. He looked at her, knowing he couldn’t just give her her wand back. Even with it she’d be no match for his aunt, and it would only lead to more pain for them both after Bellatrix took the wand back. And then Bellatrix would know there was a mole, a traitor, in their midst. He swallowed; so that’s what he was now - a traitor. She shivered again and his thoughts were brought back to his immediate intentions. Pulling his wand out, he cast a warming charm over her and within seconds he watched the tension fall from her shoulders as she stopped shivering.

 

After a few moments she finally turned around and sat up just as he was sliding his wand back into his coat. He quickly scanned her face, her shoulders and arms, and her legs but saw no new markings. Though, her old bandages did need to be changed.

 

“It’s all internal,” she managed as she noticed his gaze and reached for a piece of toast. She winced as she sat back, an arm going to her ribs.

 

He sat up and moved the tray closer to her. They sat in silence as she at the toast and sausage from the tray, having to chew slowly due to the pain in her teeth and jaw. They kept up the silence as he changed her bandages and let a few tense minutes pass after he finished before Hermione finally spoke up.

 

She took a deep, painful breath. “Do you know the _Sarcio_ charm?” She asked, her words chopped and labored.

 

When Draco shook his head, she told him how to perform it. Her head fell back and she let out a sigh of relief as the pain in her ribs let up. After that, he let her show him a few other healing spells, her mood lightening just a little bit more with every one. Having done all he could do, the two of them sat against the wall, less than a foot of space between them.

 

“Won’t they wonder where you are?” Hermione asked, realizing that, although she wasn’t sure of just how much time had passed, he’d been in the dungeon much longer than any other visit.

 

His shoulders rose and fell. “They won’t notice I’m not there.”

 

Hermione nodded slightly. Her wand weighed heavy in his coat and his hand rested on the small bulge of her bag in his lower pocket. His mind was still working figuring out his options, on what he could do, what he _should_ do, when he noticed just how much Hermione was fighting sleep.

 

Picking his wand up from where it sat next to him, he pointed it at the small plate on the tray and transfigured it into a soft, plush pillow. “Here,” he said, pushing the pillow into her arms.

 

She opened her eyes and looked down in confusion, but Draco could tell that she was too tired to fight with him, or even question his motives. “Thank you,” she muttered, and Draco could hear the crack in her voice. He watched as she moved further from the wall and laid down on her side on the stone, positioning the pillow under her head and curling her knees up to her chest. She looked so small, curled up like that, and he found himself resisting the urge to reach out to her, the word _traitor_ echoing in his mind.

 

Instead, he transfigured the tray itself into another pillow and propped it up behind his head, wedging it in the corner where the walls met and giving himself some comfort as well. He didn’t intend on going to sleep, instead he kept working through scenarios in his mind. Occasionally, he was pulled from his thoughts as she whimpered in her sleep, or twitched, or cried out. He would stop muttering to himself and look down at her, staring at her and willing her to stop, not knowing what else to do. It was during one of these moments, well over two hours into his visit, that he heard a noise from the floor above him.

 

There was a thud, then a crash, then the yelling. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, their voice muffled by the stone, but there was definitely yelling - and it sounded like curses. He stole a glance back at her before quietly ascending the stairs to put his ear to the door, wand at the ready and heart racing. It was still hard to make out _who_ was yelling _what_ as it was coming from all over the house, but there was no mistaken the _Stupefy_ he heard, followed by a _Crucio_.

 

And then, he heard it. “YOU BLOOD TRAITOR, YOU FILTH!”

 

“Weasley,” he muttered to himself. He locked the door with a charm and hurried back down the stairs. “Granger!” he cried, falling to his knees beside her. His hands shook at her shoulders. “Granger! Get up, now.”

 

She awoke with a start, and sat up when she saw the panic in his eyes. Another crash sounded above them and she looked at him, confused. “What-”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening up there, but -” And then it hit him. He knew how he could get out, how he could do so without casting suspicion and shame on his mother, and how he could take Granger with him. He turned his wand in his hand and held it out to her. “But take this.”

 

Hermione looked from his wand, to him, then back again before snatching it from his hand. She didn’t know what he was playing at, but she wasn’t going to not take his wand. She held it against him, driving it into his sternum as they stood up.

 

“Tell me what’s happening up there.” she demanded. Draco held his hands up.

 

“I really don’t know,” he lied. He knew it was The Order, and he knew what they wanted. “But whatever it is… Think about it Granger, it’s the distraction we need.”

 

“We?” she echoed, pushing the wand harder into his chest.

 

“You were right,” he said, his words running together because he knew they didn’t have much time. “I never questioned anything. I just accepted what was given to me and I never examined _anything_ \- until now… until _you_.” He paused, swallowed, and hoped his last two words appealed to her pride, to her ego, or at least to her Gryffindor sensibilities. He saw a small but quick change in her eyes, a flash of softness before she blinked and they went back to the cold and hard stare she’d been giving him.

 

“Look, Granger, you have my wand. It’ll get you out of here, it’ll get you through the wards and it’ll set you free. It’s yours, you can take it and leave me here and run.” He paused, choking back a bit fear before he conditioned. “Or -”

 

“Or what?” He was against the wall now and she moved the wand from his chest to his throat.

 

“Or you can take me with you.”

 

The fighting carried on above them as Hermione stared at him, trying to comprehend what he was saying, figure out exactly what his intentions were.

 

“Please, _please_ just think about it. I can’t just leave - he’ll kill me, he’ll kill my family. But if I get taken as a prisoner…” He saw her shoulders relax as she realized what he was getting at, but she still didn’t lower the wand. “Please,” he begged, tears now breaching his eyes and falling down his cheeks as he realized that she might actually leave him there, “I can’t live like this anymore.”

 

The fight grew closer, louder, and Draco knew they were running out of time. He locked eyes with her, silently pleading for her cooperation. She frowned, and sighed as she moved the wand, pointing it at herself instead and transfiguring the rags on her body to jeans, and boots, and a long sleeve top with a warm coat over it. As they heard the door to the dungeons blasted apart, she reached down and grabbed his hand, using his wand to apparate them out of the dungeons.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so big turning point right!? please let me know what you think about it! :)


	9. Nine

They had a plan. 

They sent word to Arthur Weasley, who was able to acquire a semi-detailed floor plan of the manor from the Ministry, maps drawn up with information from the multitude of raids conducted during the previous years. They examined its weaknesses and entrances, memorizing potential escape routes and stockades. 

They’d called in Fred and George, who set up decoys and surreptitiously closed up shop for the mission. 

They assigned everyone a partner, based on each of their fighting techniques, as complements to form a whole; spent what little time they had left practicing with each other, learning how to work with their partners as best they could. Kreacher would be able to escort them two by two onto the grounds of the Manor, into the house at different vantage points. They also made contingency plans; creating signals for a myriad of scenarios and giving themselves strategic exits to various Order safehouses via portkeys concealed in their pockets.

As the sun set and the moment of assault grew nearer, a hum of tension and energy fell over them. 

“You should get some sleep,” Ginny said, nudging Ron with her foot. They both sat on the sofa, Ron with his feet on the ground and his head back as he tried not to doze off, and Ginny with her head on the armrest and her feet on the middle cushion. Ron mumbled, and lifted his head up. 

“No, I’m good,” he said, rubbing his eyes. 

“Ron, you need to rest,” Ginny said, her voice stern.

Ron stretched, and yawned. “You sound like mum.”

Ginny nudged him again, with more force, and Ron got up. 

“Alright, alright.”

“They’re making some Pepper Up Potion now, for right before you all leave,” Ginny called as he retreated up the stairs. Ginny laid her head back down for a moment before she felt a weight on the other end of the couch, and looked to find Harry had taken Ron’s spot. 

“Hey,” she greeted, stretching her legs out over his lap. 

“Hey,” he responded, a sad and subtle smile just barely present in his lips, and they sat like that, in silence, for quite some time. 

Ginny realised they must have fallen asleep at some point, but the next time she opened her eyes Ron was shuffling down the stairs and everyone else had gathered in the kitchen. 

“They’re about to leave,” said Luna, who’d taken up a spot on the floor at the coffee table. Ginny glanced at what she was doing; drawing intricate patterns on a spare bit of parchment. “For good luck,” Luna explained. 

There came a small snort and Ginny realized that Harry had fallen asleep too, and had just woken himself up. She smiled to herself as he wiped his mouth and took a moment to get his bearings. 

Two by two, the rest of the Order disappeared from the kitchen, until eventually it was just Griphook and Ollivander sleeping upstairs, and the three of them in the living room. 

“I still feel like I should be there,” Harry lamented, feeling helpless and frustrated. 

“If you agree with them that we’re too young,” Ginny said, motioning to herself and Luna, “then you have to agree with them that you’re too valuable.”

“Gin, that’s not the same and you know it.”

Ginny huffed and crossed her arms, but Harry reached out and pulled her hand toward him, interlacing his fingers with hers. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she nodded. 

“Do you think you could… make us some tea?” she asked, rubbing her thumb in circles on his hand. Harry agreed, and as soon as she heard him filling the kettle she lept off the couch and over too Luna. 

“Ready?” she whispered. Luna nodded. 

 

 **It was near midnight and Ron and Remus stood back to back,** Kreacher grasping loosely at their pinky fingers. He disappeared as soon as he let go of them. They stood in the drawing room, in the very spot where Ron had last seen her, nearly unconscious and limp in Malfoy’s arms. Ron’s chest rose and fell in great waves, his anger swelling within him. 

“Breathe, Ron.” Remus said, his voice low and calm. “You'll need a clear head to get through the night.”

They both looked up as a crash sounded a floor above them. “Ready your wand,” he added, though his command was unnecessary as Ron was already targeting his wand at a scoundrel of a man who had appeared in the doorway behind them. 

They both shot out a spell at the same time; Ron’s Confringo hit its target but his opponent’s spell did not, thanks to Remus reaching over Ron’s shoulder to deflect it. 

Ron turned to head toward the other exit in the room but Remus clamped a hand on his shoulder. “More are coming, we can't let our emotions control our actions and rush in unprepared.”

Ron looked down to the hand on his shoulder then back at Remus and stared, nostrils flaring with his breath. Remus flinched as Ron whipped his wand up and shot a spell right by his ear at another lackey who'd shown up behind them. 

“I'm going to find her,” He stated, and snatched his shoulder back. Having no other choice, Remus followed, keeping a sharp eye out for any more enemies. 

 

 **Fleur and Tonks appeared in a whirlwind of blonde and pink hair,** Fleur in a combat-ready stance and Tonks struggling to right herself before falling. Kreacher begrudgingly snatched his hands back from theirs, disappearing as he grumbled under his breath. They took in their surroundings, an empty hallway on the top floor of the manor with hardwood paneled walls and a long, ornate carpet running the length of it. The staircase was as the far left end, while a door sat at the far right. They could hear the fight beginning below them as they exchanged glances, readying themselves for the fight to come. 

“We should clear these rooms,” Tonks said. “End of the hall first.” 

With their wands held out before them they headed for the door. Tonks raised her foot to kick at the handle but Fleur put a hand on her arm. 

“What are you doing? We don’t want to make noise.” She pointed her wand at the brass handle and uttered a word. The room was dark, yet they could see a sleeping form in the bed centered on the wall in front of them. Fleur looked pointedly at Tonks driving home her previous suggestion. Tonks rolled her eyes with an appreciative smile.

They raised their wands as the man began to stir, both hitting him with a Stupefy, knocking him unconscious before he ever got a chance to fully wake. Then Fleur sent thick ropes around him, binding him to the bed, as Tonk’s cast a silencing charm on him. They took his wand from the bedside table and set about clearing all of the other room before heading down the stairs. 

They made it two flights before running into anyone else. Judging by the surprise on his face, they guessed there hadn’t really been any alarm set off yet. Fleur sent a few stunning spells to his chest before he could call for the others or alert anyone to the siege, and Tonks used a levitating charm to stop him from tumbling down the stairs and sent him into a linen closet.

 

 **Bill and Dean were brought into the kitchens with a small pop** and then promptly abandoned by the elf. A small crash sounded from the other side of the large, scrubbed wooden table that stood in the center of the room and Bill was left with no choice but to stun the haggard-looking house elf who just happened to be putting a loaf of bread in the oven.

“He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from alerting them even if he wanted to,” Bill said as he saw the pained look in Dean’s face. Dean nodded solemnly, knowing that it was something that had to be done didn’t mean that he had to like doing it. 

Bill moved toward the door but Dean rounded the table and knelt to gingerly pick up the elf. “We can’t let anyone find him like this,” he explains, heading for the pantry at the other end of the narrow kitchen. Bill moved quickly and silently to cut in front of him and open the door and they made sure to lay the elf down carefully on the polished terrazzo floors. Once Bill had turned his back, Dean looked back at the stunned elf. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, nearly inaudible. 

Back to back, Bill and Dean walked out into the hall outside of the kitchens, and cleared the nearby breakfast room before moving deeper into the manor. 

 

**Kreacher left Fred and George in a bedroom in the east wing of the Manor.**

“Ready, brother?” Fred asked, turning his head toward his brother. He jumped, though when it was just a full length mirror standing next to a dresser. To his left George snorted. 

“Ready, Freddie,” George said, taking a look around the cavernous room. He let out a quiet whistle. “And this isn’t even one they use,” he added, noting the way they left footprints in the thin layer of dust on the floor.

“Bet the Malfoys don’t even have a ghoul.”

“Not that they’d notice if they did.” 

“Pretty sure ol’ Voldy counts, though, hey George?”

George laughed quietly, but they froze when they heard a creak from the other side of the bedroom doors. They exchanged a quick glance before each rising to their full height, adjusting their grips on their wands, and raising them into the air in unintentional tandem, ready for whatever may come. 

With a quick swipe of his wand, Fred opened the door and they stood at alert for the briefest of moments, waiting to see if anyone stepped into the frame. After a moment, George took the lead, stepping a cautious foot directly for the door. Without a word, Fred moved away from George, so as to come at the open door with his back against the wall. Another creak sounded and they froze again, but after another pause George continued. As he neared the door he pushed his wand out further; Fred trained his at the doorway, ready to strike. 

Finally, George stepped into the doorway and saw a dark figure out of the the corner of his eye, just in time to throw himself back into the room and out of the line of fire of the curse that was sent his way. The instant the man stepped close enough for him to take aim, Fred shot a curse into his chest, sending him crashing into the wall.

“Alright, George?” Fred asked, not taking his eyes off of the slump of a man.

“Yeah,” George grunted as he got up from the floor. “Help me move him.” 

Together they pulled the man into the room, bound him, and silenced him. 

“This is mental,” Fred mumbled as they stood over him. George nodded, then reached down and pried the Death Eater’s wand from his hand, tucking it into his back pocket.

“Better get moving,” George said.

 

 **On the side lawn, hidden in the fog, Luna and Ginny arrived.** Before Kreacher could leave Ginny reached down to grab his towel, bringing her face to his and gripping her wand tight at her side. 

“Not a word to the others about this, do you understand?” she spat.

“Ginny,” Luna said softly, pulling Ginny out of her own emotions. Ginny loosened her grip on Kreacher but kept her wand ready.

Kreacher glared, snarling at her. “What does Kreacher care if the blood traitor wants to get herself killed?”

Ginny abruptly let go of his garment and allowed him to vanish, leaving her and Luna to gaze up at the towering, foreboding manor before them. Ginny inhaled deep, her breath lingering in the air on her exhale. Then, just as she was about to suggest they go back, stay at the cottage like they were supposed to, Luna was at her side. Luna smiled as she slipped her hand into Ginny’s. 

They saw a flash of green light- a curse- streak passed the windows at the far end of the house.

“We’ve gotta go, now!” Ginny said, dropping Luna’s hand to run towards the fight.

 

 **Ron and Remus had almost made it to the first bend in the hallway when they were spotted by a man in a night-robe.** Ron, anticipating conflict, shot out a curse first, followed by a quick hex from Remus; but the man blocked them and returned with one of his own. Remus nearly didn’t pull Ron aside fast enough. The table where they’d just been standing exploded into thousands of shards of wood, some embedding themselves into Ron’s arms, which he held over his face for protection. 

“Elf!” the man hollered, with a voice hoarse and rough. Remus tried to hit him with another curse but he blocked that one, too. Seconds later a small house elf appeared in front of the man and Remus aimed his wand at her, too. 

All Ron could see in that moment was Hermione in the Gryffindor common room making her S.P.E.W. badges and knitting things for all of the Hogwarts elves; guilt and something else pulled at the pit of his stomach. “No!” he cried, pulling Remus’ arm down and alerting the elf to their presence. 

“Intruders!” the elf croaked, and disappeared. 

The man threw another curse at them, and while Remus was distracted with what Ron had just done, Ron blocked the hit, redirecting it to the wall across from them. Remus shot over Ron’s head, finally landing one in the man’s chest. 

“We have to go, that elf is going to alert the others,” Remus said, pulling Ron down the hall by the sleeve of his shirt. 

 

 **Tonks and Fleur had cleared another two floors and disposed of three more thugs when it happened.** They’d just taken a moment to catch their breath and survey their surroundings when they realized they weren’t alone. 

“Well, what a treat… someone smells pretty,” growled a voice behind them. The hairs on the back of Fleur’s neck stood up and Tonks made out a very distinct smell, eerily familiar yet something distinct at the same time. Within seconds, before even turning around, Tonks threw her wand arm over her shoulder and aimed it blindly behind her, casting a wide curse that landed with an explosive hit. The both of them turned to see Fenrir Greyback emerging unscathed from the rubble Tonks had just created. 

“Oh, I like it when they put up a fight,” Greyback hissed, crawling to his feet with a sinister grin. 

They both shot stunning spells at him, one right after the other, but even combined they did little to deter the werewolf. 

“You know, it’d be real nice to add two sets to my collection.” 

“Together,” Tonks mumbled, just loud enough for Fleur to hear. In unison, they each shot one more curse, both aiming for the center of this chest- sending Greyback crashing over the railing of the hallway and down three floors. 

Fleur rushed toward the now open edge and aimed her wand down. “Petrificus Totalus!” she called, and watched his body stiffen in the unnatural, crumpled position he’d landed in. Pushing past Tonks, she rushed for the stairs. They made it to the landing of the floor right below them when they heard George and Fred calling out spells near the other end of the hall. Tonks took a right towards the twins, but Fleur took a decisive left. 

“Where are you going?” Tonks called.

Fleur stopped, her breathing heavy and eyes wild. “I cannot just let ‘im lie zere!”

“We can’t just split up either!” 

They heard more shouts, followed by a crash. 

“‘E is ze reason your ‘usband is ze way ‘e is!” Fleur snapped, pointing emphatically to the floor below her. “‘E is ze reason my Bill is ze way ‘e is!” Her voice cracked, and her face turned a bright shade of red as tears were brimming in her eyes. 

Tonks rushed to Fleur and took her shoulders in her hands, giving her a slight but firm shake. “You think I don’t know that? He is the reason many people are the way they are! You think I don’t want justice? Vengeance? You think I don’t want to rip him limb from limb, for what he has done to Remus- to our son? There will be a time for that, I promise you. But right now our friends need our help.”

Fleur let out a breath and nodded, softening in Tonks’ grip. Tonks let go of her, but before following suite, Fleur went back to the banister and shot several more stunning spells into Greyback’s stiff body, only stopping when she saw his eyes roll back into his head.

 

 **Dean and Bill had made it through three different dining rooms** and a plethora of closets and seemingly useless, mostly empty rooms when they heard Ron’s voice, shouting with panic.

“No!” they heard, from somewhere nearby. 

Dean started to take off but Bill grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “We can’t just rush in! You have to observe your surroundings, be smart about this.” 

They’d just entered the drawing room, and stepped over the body of the Death Eater Ron had felled earlier in the night, when four more Death Eaters came in through the other two entrances of the room, flanking them. 

“Well, well, well- four against two,” taunted one of them, twirling her wand in her hand. 

In the distance, down the hall nearest them, they heard more crashes. Knowing they had to fight these Death Eaters to keep them from chasing down Remus and Ron, they each took a defensive stance. 

“I hope you came prepared to die,” said a familiar voice. One of the men stepped forward, out from the shadows, and Bill recognized the figure as Yaxley. 

“Not likely,” Bill growled, and shot a nonverbal curse towards Yaxley, while Dean tried to disarm the woman. Spells lit up the room with a tempestuous fury, leaving behind scorched walls and shattered furniture.

Dean cried out when a burning curse hit his calf, but never stopped fighting. Bill ignored the pain of the stinging jinx that was sent to his shoulder, radiating down the left side of his back. They took one out quickly, and then another, until it was an even fight.

 

**In another room, not far from the one in which they began, Fred and George circled another Death Eater.**

“Expelliarmus!” 

“Stupefy!”

They sent their spells as the same time and the man fell to the ground, his wand rolling away and towards Fred’s foot.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” came a gruff voice as Fred bent to pick up the wand. Three figures darkened their only way out of the room and Fred straightened up, kicking the wand to the wall behind him. He and George exchanged glances, each preparing for another fight.

“Looks like you boys finally have a fair fight,” said one of the Death Eaters. 

“Two for the price of one, aye?” said another. 

“Do you guys have to attend a class on skeevy catch phrases?” George asked, leveling his wand at them.

“Or is it just a shared hobby?” Fred added. 

One of the Death Eaters shot out a curse in response and George fell to the floor, screaming in pain. 

“Crucio!” Fred cried out, aiming the spell at the man hurting his brother. The man cried out and fell to the wall behind him and George’s screams fell into whimpers. 

One of the other men aimed this wand at Fred but before he could finish the spell his wand flew from his hand and a curse hit him in the chest, knocking him out. The third Death Eater turned away from the door but flew back into the hall before she could raise her wand. 

“George,” Fred croaked, falling to his knees to help his brother sit up. 

“Wotcher, boys?” Tonks asked, rounding the door frame with Fleur right behind her. 

George's breathing was still labored and there was still a dull pain throbbing throughout his body but he nodded as Fred helped him up. They heard a groan behind them and George sent a stunning curse to the rousing Death Eater in the hall. 

 

 **“Reducto!” Ginny called, whipping her wand at the large, ornate window.** The glass shattered and Ginny and Luna cautiously made their way into the room, where it was evident a fight had just recently taken place. Ginny’s skin rose into goosebumps, even though it wasn’t very cold in the Manor. There was energy in the air, something left behind from dark magic.

“This doesn’t look good,” Luna mumbled, running her hands over a scorch mark left on the ebony paneled wall.

Ginny’s heart sank as she looked around the room at the shattered furniture and fallen paintings. Who’d been fighting here? It could have been her brothers, or Tonks, anyone she cared about. Where were they now?

Luna’s voice shouting out a spell brought her out of her head and back into the room, and as she realized what had just happened her breathing became shallow and she grew more frightened. In the doorway in front of her laid what she presumed was a Death Eater, wrapped up tightly in the thick, black curtains from the window she and Luna had just stepped through. His cries were muffled as he struggled to get free. 

“He was trying to sneak up on you,” Luna said, stepping next to Ginny. Together they looked down at him. “He looks a bit like a worm, don’t you think?”

A small smile and a quiet chuckle escaped Ginny before she could stop it. He did look a bit like a worm. 

A cry came from down the hall and they took off after it, finding Bill and Dean fighting with Yaxley and another Death Eater. Bill, blood soaking through the sleeve of his shirt, was backed into a corner, recklessly throwing out non-verbal spells, most of which were not landing anywhere near Yaxley. Dean was stuck walking backward, blocking spell after spell, with no time to send out any of his own.

At the other end of the hall, Luna called out a spell that pulled the rug runner out from under the feet of the Death Eater Dean was fighting, sending them crashing to the ground, wand flying through the air. 

“Ava-” Ginny heard Yaxley begin, his wand aimed at Bill. 

“No!” she cried, and sent a blue ball of fire hurling at his back. As his coat caught flame, Yaxley spun to put his back against the wall. At nearly the same time, Bill and Ginny sent two different spells right into his chest, while Dean and Luna dealt with the other Death Eater. 

Ginny ran to hug her brother. “Are you alright?” she asked, moving her hand toward his shoulder. 

“Ginny, what are you two doing? You’re not supposed to be here!” Bill said, putting her at arm's length and gripping her shoulders. 

“She did just save your life, though,” Luna argued, and Ginny crossed her arms over her chest and gave her brother a pointed look. 

Before Bill could respond, they heard a taunting laugh echo through out the house, standing their hair on end. 

“Bellatrix,” Bill gasped. 

 

 **“I think it’s just around this corner,” Ron said of the door to the dungeon.** Remus stood behind him, head tilted back as he tried to catch his breath. 

“They’ll probably have someone guarding her,” Remus mumbled. Ron nodded once, tightening his grip on his wand as they started forward again, only to stop moments later when a wild-haired figure stepped into their path. 

Bellatrix’s eyes glinted with delight and she let out a loud laugh as she slowly walked toward them. “Well it’s about time,” she said as her mad laughter died down. “I was beginning to think you’d never show up to our little party.” She twisted her wand in her hand.

Quickly, and silently, Ron set fire to the bottom of her dress. She screamed, out of anger, and extinguished the flames with a dismissive flick of her wand.

“YOU BLOOD TRAITOR, YOU FILTH!” she hollered, and leveled her wand at them, sending a spell their way. Remus blocked it, but the battle had begun.

Ron wasn’t worried about Remus, or himself for that matter, he was solely focused on pushing her back far enough so that he could get around the corner and to the dungeons. He couldn’t risk engaging with Bellatrix, but Remus could hold his own. If she was distracted enough, forced into a corner or made to play her hand- Ron could get to her.

The two of them continued to shoot spells at her; but she easily deflected them, laughing with every move she foiled. 

Remus could feel the fatigue starting to take ahold of his shoulder. His mind slipped from the battle, and to thoughts of Dora, fighting her own battle somewhere on one of the floors above him. Was she all right? Was she injured? Would he know, somehow, if she needed him? If he needed her?

A curse flew passed his face, close enough so that his ear tingled from the residual magic. Bellatrix laughed, cruelly snapping him back to himself.

"Oh, this is going to be so much more fun than killing my useless cousin!" she taunted, bouncing on the soles of her feet like an excited child. Ron sent a curse at her and she diverted it into the wall next to her. "Of course, there was a certain satisfaction in killing Sirius- the Black family disappointment- but he just fell and disappeared. It just wasn’t much fun."

Remus felt a roar rise in his throat and escape as he sent a curse straight at her chest. She was sent through the air, and came crashing to the floor. She still laughed, enjoying the game. "But you two," she said, rising to her feet, her deranged dignity still intact and her eyes glinting with a sick pleasure, "you two will beg me for death." 

A loud crack sounded behind them and four more black-cloaked wizards showed up behind them. Ron and Remus were surrounded now, pinned between Bellatrix and this second contingent. There was a more worrying ramification here- the arrival of reinforcements meant that the manor was on high alert, responding to their invasion. A curse hit Remus in the back of the calf and he cried out, dropping to the ground as the muscle spasmed. Ron grabbed him by the arm, keeping him up and turning him around, putting them back to back, using his own body to support the man he once called “Professor”. 

They turned; Ron facing Bellatrix and Remus, the other Death Eaters. They were outnumbered now, especially in light of Bellatrix’s strength. Above them they could hear fighting as well, from the familiarity of the voices Ron was certain it was the twins and the women engaged on the first floor. A brief moment of worry was eclipsed by the knowledge that he couldn’t help them until he had gotten Hermione to safety. 

Another curse flew by Ron and Bellatrix laughed. “The blood traitor is mine!” Bellatrix called. “Do what you will with the mongrel.”

Bellatrix threw a spell at Ron, and the other Death Eaters poised their wands at Remus; and then two of them dropped to the floor. Remus let out a small sigh of relief when he saw Bill and Ginny in the hall behind them, and Dean and Luna behind them. They now had the upper hand. While the others battled the Death Eaters, Remus whirled around and let a spell fly from his wand and to Bellatrix, drawing her fire from Ron to himself. 

“Go!” Remus cried. He kept Bellatrix’s fire, creating the diversion Ron needed to slip past her and into the next hallway, ever closer to the dungeons. 

Ron rounded the corner only to find a tall, blonde haired woman dressed in a long black night robe standing at the other end of the hall. He knew who she was, but even if he didn’t- her composure would have given her away. Even caught unawares and in her bedclothes, Narcissa Malfoy carried herself like the woman of the house. 

He took off, running for the door that was midway between them. He kept waiting for her to send a curse his way, but nothing happened. It was like she saw right through him and straight onto her own objective. He beat her to the door by less than a minute, and used his wand to splinter the wood into a thousand pieces. 

“Hermione!” he called, rushing down the stairs.

“Draco!” Narcissa yelled, right behind him, in a worried tone all mothers seem to have naturally mastered. 

Ron reached the stone floor and looked around the darkened room. His heart dropped at the sight of the slur against the wall, written in what was surely dried blood. 

“Hermione,” he called again, this time with less anger and more desperation. Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned on his heels, his wand trained on Narcissa. “Where is she?” he demanded. 

Narcissa’s eyes darted around the room and her mouth twisted into a horrified frown. 

“Where is Hermione!” Ron shouted again, his wand in her face. 

“Here,” she said, frantic and panicked. “She should be here - wh-where’s Draco?” 

As the horror of Hermione not being there sank in, Ron drew his wand back. “Expecto Patronum,” he mumbled, sending a non-corporeal patronus flying past Narcissa’s slight frame. He knew it would bounce past everyone else, letting them know it was time to pull out of the manor- they had failed. 

He aimed his wand back towards Narcissa. For a moment he worried what he might do to her, what he was capable of in this situation- but then he reached into his jeans and rubbed his thumb over the small portkey wrapped securely in his pocket. 

 

 **Ron was the first one back at the cottage,** where his mother and Harry waited in the kitchen.

“Ron!” his mother called out, rushing to hug him. He stared through her, his face blank as he let her embrace him and fuss over him. 

“Ron?” Harry said, his tone much different than Molly’s. He’d noticed everyone else’s absence and the look on Ron’s face. 

But then Remus, Bill, and Dean appeared in the living room, followed by Ginny and Luna. 

“He’s hurt!” Bill cried, lying Remus down on the sofa. Ginny rushed to the hutch near the stairs to search through Fleur’s potions. 

“D-Dora! Where’s...Dora,” Remus asked, trying to sit up. 

“Here, love,” Tonks said, coming in from the dining room with Fleur and the twins. Fleur went to help Ginny, while George helped a limping Fred to the chair by the fireplace. 

“Oh, Fred,” Molly exclaimed, rushing to her son. 

“What happened?” Harry asked, as Fleur and Ginny began to tend to the wounded. Fred and Remus weren’t the only ones hurt; Luna’s face was covered in small cuts, blood was crusting up on Bill’s shirt sleeve, and Tonks was holding onto her bruised ribs as she knelt by Remus’ side, trying to hide her pain from him. 

“Take this, and help Luna,” Ginny said, shoving a small bottle and a flannel into Harry’s hand. 

In the dining room, Luna sat on the table while Harry poured the potion on the the cloth. “You guys shouldn’t have gone,” he said to her, dabbing her cuts. 

“But it’s a good thing we did,” Luna said, her tone soft yet stern, and leaving no room for argument. “Bellatrix caught Professor Lupin in the chest with a slicing charm,” she added after a few moments of silence. 

Harry nodded, and added more potion to towel. “Luna… Where’s Hermione?” he finally asked. She quickly looked up at him. 

“You mean she’s not with Ron?”


	10. Ten

**Hermione gasped, inhaling sharply as the icy rain fell over her,** slowly soaking into her transfigured clothing and chilling her to the bone. Even as she struggled with her breath, she smiled. The sensations were unfamiliar and shocking and yet she welcomed them. She closed her eyes, turned her face toward the dark sky, and let the rain fall onto her face and into her mouth as she laughed. She even held her arms out and took a spin or two, any pain she would have felt overpowered by the sheer ecstasy of liberation, of feeling the rain and the wind, of seeing the sky and smelling the grass and mud beneath her feet. 

 

She was free.

 

A loud cry brought her crashing back to the urgency at hand. The pain in her body returned as her hand tightened around the hawthorn wand, a wordless lumos maxima cast to help her locate the source of the sound. About two meters away lay Draco Malfoy, on his back and grabbing at his left side. Wand at the ready, she marched toward him. 

 

“Get up!” she demanded, wand pointed at his chest and her free hand wiping the water from her face. He propped himself up on his elbows, pain evident in his face. “Now!” 

 

“I'm splinched,” he cried, struggling to be heard over the storm around them. “I can't -”

 

His elbows collapsed and his head fell back to the ground. He shook and shivered as Hermione refocused her attention on his side, where blood was seeping through the crisp white fabric of his collared shirt and mixing with the rain and mud around him. 

 

Cursing under her breath, she knelt beside him and pulled his arm from the sleeve of his coat. She used the wand to slice through the shirt, and sure enough a long and narrow, yet shallow, scoop was missing from his waist.

 

She ran her hands over her face, ignoring how familiar the situation felt. Thunder cracked overhead, followed by a bright flash of lightening; she knew the storm would only get worse. She transfigured the dead leaves from the ground around her into gauze, staunching the bleeding and using a charm to bind it to his stomach. 

 

“We have to move,” she said, standing up and wiping the blood and dirt from her palms and onto her thighs.

 

Malfoy let out a weak groan as he sat up, only to lose his balance and nearly fall over when he tried to get to his knees. Hermione watched, unsure of how to proceed. She saw him laying on the ground, soaked to the bone and covered in mud and tried to picture the arrogant little boy from their early years of school. She heard that snooty drawl he put on any time he spoke to her and saw him strutting down the halls flanked by those two dim-witted croneys, saw his smug face alternating from a perpetually disgust sneer to a conniving little smirk and couldn’t help but wonder. What would that boy think if he saw the man before her now, broken and writhing amongst the mud and dead leaves? 

 

Draco steadied himself and tried again, frustration showing in his face. 

 

Another chorus of thunder and lightening reminded her of the impending storm. Sighing, Hermione tightened her grip on the wand and held it behind her as she reached her free hand out to him. He stared up at her from behind the soaked bits of hair clinging to his forehead for a moment before reaching up to accept her hand and her help. 

 

“Where are we going?” he asked, shambling behind her as they continued further down the field. They’d been walking for almost an hour. She didn't answer.

 

The thunder and lightning crept closer together and the wind began to pick up as they followed the treeline of the forest beside them. It had been a long time since she’d visited this particular area, but she was positive they were on the right track and getting closer to their destination. Something in the air just felt familiar, felt right. She heard a thud in the grass behind her as Malfoy fell to his knees. If she were being honest, adrenalin was about the only thing keeping her off of the ground herself.

 

“We have to keep moving,” she urged, hiding the fact that she felt as though she were trying to convince herself just as much as she was trying to motivate him. Water dripped from her hair to her face and rolled off her chin onto the ground, where her feet slowly sunk in the muddy grass as she stood there looking down at Malfoy. “We can’t just sit here,” she added, her voice quiet and almost defeated. 

 

Malfoy winced as he reached for his coat pocket, but Hermione stopped him; pulling out his wand and holding it to his face. “What are you doing?” she demanded. 

 

“Please,” he grunted, and motioned toward the pocket. “My pocket… just -” 

 

Hermione knelt and slowly reached for the pocket, keeping the wand trained on him at all times. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat as her fingers grazed over the soft velvet and smooth beads of the bag she thought was long gone. She pulled it into her lap and looked up to him, but his eyes were closed and his chest heaved with his labored breathing. 

 

“Accio tent,” she mutter, reaching her hand into the bag. A rough canvas moved into her palm and she smiled as she stood and pulled it out. 

 

Between the slight resistance Malfoy’s wand had been giving her and her utter exhaustion, getting the tent up was no easy task but she managed.   
The tent was different than it was when she’d been with Harry and Ron. It was smaller, only slightly larger than a muggle tent, and provided only two cots. There was no table in the middle, no rugs on the floor, and a significantly smaller fireplace. However grateful she was that it wasn’t exactly the same, it didn’t make her miss her friends any less.

 

Malfoy all but collapsed on one of the two cots, while Hermione, ever proactive, turned to face the door of tent, wand and free hand in the air.

 

“Protego Totalum,” she said, her voice soft and low. She took a deep breath, focusing her thoughts and steading her shaking arm. “Repello Muggletum, Cave In-”

 

“What are you doing?” Malfoy asked, petulance hiding just behind his words. Hermione clenched her jaw and repositioned her hands. 

 

“Cave Inimicum,” she continued. After she was done, she went to the other side of the tent and repeated the spells. 

 

Satisfied with her protective enchantments, she crouched by the small, metal fireplace and started a fire with his wand. As she took a moment to calm herself she realized just how tired she was, and her knees gave out as she let herself fall to the floor to sit. 

 

“Granger?” Malfoy asked behind her, his voice cracking. 

 

She ignored him, bringing her knees together and curling her legs under her bum. The fire warmed her face and she felt her eyes grow heavy. She was tired, so very tired. She inhaled through her nose, and the smell of the fire brought on a slew of memories. It brought her back to her living room fireplace, sitting next to the christmas tree with her parents while they drank hot chocolate and read The Night Before Christmas. It brought her back to the Gryffindor Common room, studying in front of the fire with Ron and Harry. It brought her to the Burrow, having hushed, late night conversations with Ginny by the light of the small fireplace in her room.

 

“There's Dittany,” Malfoy said, his strangled words breaking the silence and bringing her out of her thoughts, “in the bag.”

 

Hermione took a deep breath and swallowed before reaching for the bag and getting back on her feet. She reached her hand into the satchel and called for the Dittany, but the bottle that came out was not the same as the one she’d had before; it was a clear, finely cut crystal with a golden stopper, something much nicer than her vials. 

 

“I - I added a few things,” he admitted when she gave him a quizzical look. Resisting the urge to ask a mouthload of questions, she unstoppered the bottle and hovered the dropper over the slice in his shirt, where his wound lay exposed. 

 

“It’s going to sting, and I’m not sure how well it will stop the scarring,” she said, trying to keep her tone very matter-of-fact. 

 

Draco reached out and grabbed her wrist. “You first,” he said, taking her aback as they locked eyes for just a moment. She shook her head and pulled her wrist from his hand.

 

“My wounds have already started healing, you need this more,” her tone wavered, bordering on concern. Before he could argue she pushed his hand out of the way and removed the transfigured gauze from the slice, letting them turn back into dead leaves and crumble to the floor. She released the Dittany onto his side and continued to work silently until the wound was as good as it was going to get and then she charmed his shirt back together. 

 

Even though he still almost looked a little green, she saw the relief in his face as he let out a breath and sunk further into the cot. She sat back, wincing at the pain in her ribs, and studied her legs. She knew she had to get to the wounds under her transfigured jeans, but she was trying to figure out the best way to go about it. In the end, she decided that letting them go back to their original form was the easiest option. 

She stole a glance at Malfoy and was at least a little grateful that his eyes were shut and his head was turned from her, even if she knew he wasn’t asleep. Taking a deep breath, she pointed the wand at her clothes and watched as the denim and wool faded back into the dirty old bedsheet she’d wore in the dungeons. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down, trying to keep her emotions at bay and away from her face. It was such an odd feeling, to be relieved and happy and yet terribly, terribly sad. She was glad to be out, to be away from that place, but at the same time it was hard to think of all that she’d suffered there. 

 

Thunder cracked outside and wind whipped at the canvas walls of the tent. The storm was showing its full ferocity, yet she still felt safer than in the impenetrable dungeons. 

 

She shook her head, trying to focus on the task at hand, and pulled the sheet up her thigh. She almost gasped at the sight of the wound. In the dungeon there wasn’t light, or the will for that matter, enough to truly examine the damage that had been done to her body, but there by the fire and the light over head, it was all much too clear and grotesque. 

 

She reached for the bottle and held the stopper over the end of the wound, just above her knee. Silently wincing at the pain, she slowly worked her way up, only to cry out when she reached the midway point. The stopper fell from her hand as it went to her ribs, grasping at a pain she couldn’t see.

 

The cot creaked and there came a small thud next to her and when she opened her eyes Malfoy was knelt next to her, reaching for the dropped stopper. She pulled back as his hand reached out in front of her; his gaze fell to the ground. 

 

“I - I’m just trying to help,” He mumbled, then looked back up. She sighed and handed him the bottle; it wasn’t as if they hadn’t done all this before. 

 

She tried not to whimper as the potion hit the worst of her wounds and sunk in. Slowly, the pain subsided and she let out of breath of relief. Her ribs still ached and it still hurt when she inhaled but she could set a healing charm to those later. 

 

As they sat there in silence, Draco next to her staring at the bottle, and her back in that sheet, she realize just how vulnerable she felt. 

****

  
xxx  


**Draco twisted the cut crystal bottle in his hands.** He remembered the day he got it, with a set of eleven others that his mother bought him at the beginning of his fourth year. He hadn't thought twice about them then, but now he could see just how finely crafted they were.

 

He glanced back up at her, fidgeting with a bit of the sheet. A lump formed in his throat. Seeing her in the sheet, forcing her to put it on, was bad enough when they were in the dungeons, but when seen against the stark contrast of the warm, clean tent it was even more disturbing.

 

He inhaled to speak and saw her jump at the small sound. He swallowed. “Your clothes are still in that bag. I left them there, I mean.”

 

He expected her to ignore him, to bind him up and turn him around so he couldn't see her change. What he did not expect was for her to whip around and jab his wand into his chest. 

 

“Why?!” she demanded, her eyes wild and searching his face for answers. 

 

He swallowed, pushed himself up on to the cot and away from the wand. “Look I- I just-”

 

A crash of thunder sounded and a streak of lightning briefly lit the room, creating a harsh and beautiful atmosphere all at once. “Why did you help me!?”

 

It was a question he’d been asking himself since they left. He had been trying to tell himself that he’d just let Snape rile him up, that he had just gotten scared and carried away and caught up in the moment, that he had just not been thinking straight and was under a lot of stress. But it had all been a vain and desperate attempt at holding the pieces of what was once his life together. He’d needed her, he’d needed to get out- and she had been the perfect excuse.

 

But Granger didn't need to know any of that. 

 

“I wasn’t helping you!” he answered, putting an emphasis on the last word and finally making eye contact. He took a deep breath. “I wasn’t helping you, okay I was - I was helping myself.” He let his gaze fall to the floor again.

 

Hermione let out a huff of air and slightly relaxed her arm. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

 

“I’m not going to tell you I regret it,” he said, his voice strained as he tried to sit up, only to fall back to the cot and let out a noise of pain. Hermione sighed and knelt down, wincing in pain herself. 

 

“Yeah, well, ”she said, reaching for her bag on floor, “I’m out of your dungeon, aren’t I?” 

 

He didn't know what to say to that. He averted his eyes but was still keenly aware of her pulling out a change of clothes and crossing the room, getting as far from him as possible while still being able to keep and eye in him, he supposed. There was more movement, and the sound of legs sliding into trousers. Unable to stop himself, his gaze drifted toward her. She'd kept her back to him, and through his peripherals he watched as she pulled the sheet over her head. He grimaced at the sight of the marbled bruising and light pink lines that scarred her back. It appeared as though his aunt hadn't left any part of her untouched. 

 

Hermione pulled on a shirt, and then a maroon jumper, and sighed. 

 

“All that good breeding and no one managed to teach you that staring was rude?” she said sharply, turning around as she pulled her wild and tangled curls into a hair tie on the top of her head. Her arms crossed defiantly as they locked eyes for little more than a second before he sighed and turned over in the cot, lying on his left arm. He heard her moving around, but didn’t look back. His hand went to his right coat pocket, to her wand that he was keeping as a security measure. 

 

“How much stuff did you add to my bag,” she asked behind him, making more noise. Carefully, he sat up and turned towards her. She had begun to empty out the bag, to sorting things into piles of like items. Scattered around her were more empty vials and a few with potions in them, a pile of clothes, and more books than Draco thought were necessary. 

 

His breath caught when he saw the book closest to him, a Muggle Studies textbook. He swallowed, the memory of Professor Burbage suspended above his dining room table, only moments before being made snake feed, rising in his throat like bile. Hermione’d taken Muggle Studies, she’d have known Professor Burbage, probably even liked her. 

 

Hermione scoffed, breaking Draco from his thoughts. She pulled her arm out of the bag’s opening and her brow wrinkled at what was wrapped in her fist. “Silk pajamas? Really? Only one vial of dittany but you brought all the creature comforts of home!?” She held them out towards him, disbelief and anger in her features. 

 

“I -” he started, but she scoffed and threw them into fire next to her. Draco looked to the ground and took a deep breath and tried to quell his anger. It wasn’t as though he’d picked out his best set, it was just all he ever wore. 

 

Hermione sat up right and huffed, pushing stray baby hairs out of her face, then narrowed her eyes at him. “Why were you so prepared?” she asked, motioning to the sea of things around her. He swallowed. “Did you plan all of this?”

 

“No. Well, not exactly.”

 

“What was going on when we left?” 

 

Draco sighed. He couldn’t tell her that he was nearly sure it was the Order, come to rescue her. If he did then he’d have to tell her how he knew, and he definitely couldn’t do that. He set his brow. “Look, Granger, I don’t know what was happening alright?” he snapped, “I just saw an opportunity and took it. You should be grateful.” He turned, slid back down the cot, and pulled up the covers from the foot of it. 

 

From behind him he heard, “Comfortable?” 

 

“Not in the slightest,” he huffed.

 

“Good.” 

 

Before he could register anything else, rope sprung up and wrapped themselves around him, binding him to the bed. 

 

“Is this really necessary?”

 

“In the unlikely event that you do get free, there’s an alarm ward on the tent. Good luck running away… again.”

 

His heart turned into a weight led and sunk to his stomach. That’s what he did, ran away. He had ran away and just left his mother in that house. With that man. His throat tightened as he thought about how defenseless she was, his father was. He inhaled deep in an attempt to steady himself, his chest pushing against the ropes around him. What would become of her? How long would being Bellatrix’s sister keep her safe? Would the Dark Lord punish her for his disappearing act? 

 

Images of his mother, alone and shivering on the floor of the manor, screaming out in pain and contorted into horrific shapes flashed through his mind as tears glossed his eyes. 

 

_What had he done?_

He’d nearly fallen asleep, his energy spent and his emotions drained, when he heard her. There was a small whimper, and huffing coming from her direction. He craned his head until he could see her figure, facing the wall on her cot. His heart quickened. If she was up, had she heard him crying? He didn’t think he’d made any noise but he couldn’t be sure.

 

“Granger?” he whispered, but there came no answer. She was asleep. She was asleep and crying. She whimpered again, and this time he realized that it sounded more like a whimper of fear. 

 

He thought he’d already gotten all of his tears out, but he has wrong. As he sat there, listening to her nightmares, the weight of what she’d been through finally sank it. 

 

She would never be the same. 

 

Even if Voldemort is defeated and the world goes back to normal and a decade passes, she would never not have those memories and experiences in the back of her mind. She would live with what was done to her for the rest of her life. 

 

He wiped his cheek on his shoulder and took a deep breath. It was going to be a long night.

 

****

  
xxx  


**Hermione wasn’t sure she would be able to sleep at all,** but before she knew it she was waking to the early morning sun shining through the top of the tent, with no distinct memory of falling asleep or sleeping through the night. The storm had ended, the air was fresh and peaceful with its lingering moisture of torrential rain. She stretched on her cot, her cuts and bruises and aching bones screaming in protest. She put her feet on the floor and reached under the pillow for the wand. Glancing at Malfoy, she saw that he was still bound, but awake and staring at the wall. With a flick of his wand, she removed the ropes and she saw his chest rise as he took a deep breath.

 

They didn’t speak for the entirety of the morning, and for that Hermione was glad. Limping and wincing, the two of them worked to pack up their small camp.

 

“What is this?” was the first thing Malfoy said to her. They’d packed up the tent and started off along the treeline again when Hermione reached into the bag, pulled out two granola bars, and handed one to him. 

 

“Well it’s not stale bread,” Hermione quipped, remembering how the only time she’d had anything other than hard, stale, sometimes even moldy, bread in the past few week was after the worst of Bellatrix’s sessions, when it was given to her as tool of manipulation in the hopes that she’d further cling to Malfoy. To her, the granola bar, the flavor she’d picked out herself and chosen to eat, was the most incredible meal of her life. 

 

He didn’t respond, but she heard him opening the package beside her. 

 

As they walked, Hermione couldn't help but smile. The sun had come out in full force, its rays kissing her cheeks and warming her face. Of course they were trudging through mud, but as long as the sun was out and the gentle breeze continued to pass through the trees and tangle in her hair, she would smile. 

 

It was just after midday when she spotted it; a familiar, twisted oak with a rotting plank swing hanging from it just few meters away. Leaving him behind her, she headed for the tree, stopping in front of it to run her hand along its gnarled branches. She could almost hear the sweet tinkling joy of her own childhood laugh, almost see her nine year old self swinging in the tree. As Malfoy caught up with her she moved on, heading towards the crumbling cottage she knew she would find just past the swing. 

 

The cottage was half covered in ivy and lacked a front door. The window panes were mostly shattered, residual rain was dripping through the roof in multiple areas, and a thick layer of dust covered everything but Hermione could still feel her Gran’s love coming from the tattered, floral arm chair in the living room, hear the joyful piano music playing in the dining room, and smell the homecooked food drafting in from the kitchen. 

 

“What is this place? How did you know where it was?” Malfoy asked, his voice cracking and his weight resting on the door frame behind her. She took in a deep breath and wiped the tears from her cheeks. 

 

“It’s shelter, and it’s safe. That’s all that matters. They won’t find us here” she said as they shuffled further into the living room. It was more than safe, it was a safe house. One she, Ron, and Harry had set up early on in the horcrux hunt. She knew it would be empty, and out of the way. The three of them warded the place months ago, though they hadn’t managed to make it inside. 

 

Draco let his coat fall to the floor and let himself fall onto the couch, sending a cloud of dust into the air. Hermione pointed the wand at the ceiling. “Reparo,” she muttered, slashing it through the air. The leaks sealed themselves and she set to drying the puddles in the floor, then sent out lights to the lanterns and candles scattered about.

 

Hermione walked toward the fireplace, her leg momentarily giving out on the way. She regained her balance and sent a fire into the firebox before the photos on the mantle caught her attention. They were old and faded, and some of them were even deteriorating a little. There was a photo of her grandmother and grandfather in their youth, one of her mother as a child riding a tricycle, and one of her parents holding her as an infant. They shouldn’t have been there though, her aunt was supposed to have gathered them years ago; she was supposed to have taken care of all the furniture, all of her grandmother’s belongings. 

 

Her leg gave out again and she caught herself on the ledge of the mantle, her fingers slipping on the dust.

 

“Granger?” Malfoy exclaimed behind her, something dangerously close to concern hiding in his voice. She shot a glance back at him as she pulled herself up right. She took a breath and made sure her leg could hold her before stepping away from the mantle. 

 

“What, no fifteen minutes of enchantments this time?” Malfoy sneered as she headed for the kitchen. 

 

“Safe houses already have enchantments on them,” she answered, not breaking her stride. If her aunt had been too lazy to clean up the photos, hopefully she’d forgotten the kettle as well. 

 

The kitchen wasn’t in much better condition than the living room- cracked windows, dust covered counters, and what looked like droppings that Hermione didn’t want to think about. But there, sitting on the stove, was an old kettle. It took a scouring charm, and one for both fire and water, but in no time she’d made a pot of tea. 

 

“I’m sure it’s not what’s you’re used too,” Hermione said as she reentered the living room, two cups in hand. “But it’s tea.” She handed him a mug with a picture of a cat on it, and sipped from hers, which read “World’s Greatest Nan”. Draco waited to sip his, she assumed to wait and she how she reacted to hers. It was all she could do not the cough and spit it out. It was beyond stale. But she kept a straight face, and moved toward the armchair by the fire. 

 

She smiled into her mug as Malfoy coughed and choked on his tea.

 

“This is piss,” he commented, setting his mug on the coffee table in front of him. Hermione reserved any comment and continued to manage through her tea in silence. It was piss, it was beyond stale and made with a kettle which had sat unused for a decade, but it still reminded her of her grandmother. 

 

The longer she sat in an actual house, the dirtier she felt. The rain had washed away a lot of the dirt and grime, but her fingernails were still crusted and covered with blood, and there was the matter of her hair to deal with. When she finished with her tea she set her cup down on the table next to her and stood up, pulling the wand out of her pocket.

 

“Stand up, Malfoy,” she said, firmly if not commandingly.

 

“What?”

 

“Up, now!”

 

Malfoy groaned and slowly rose to his feet, his arm pressing into his wound.

 

“Obscuro,” she uttered, and a thick, dark blindfold wound itself around Draco’s eyes. He nearly fell over. 

 

“Fuck, Granger,” he protested, but Hermione only cast the Muffliato charm on him in response. He started to speak again but stopped when she laid her hands on his shoulders, turning him toward the hallway and leading him toward the back bedroom. She left him just inside the door and shut it behind her, then made her way to the kitchen where she opened the long broken icebox. Hiding the wand was her best option. If she brought it with her, she’d have to lay it down where he could easily grab it, and she couldn’t very well keep it on her. She removed the charms from Malfoy, and hurried to put the wand in the icebox, and get back to the bedroom. 

 

He met her at the door.

 

“Just what are you playing at?” He stared down at her, but any threat he meant to portray fell short, and she rolled her eyes and turned around, heading for the back door. He followed. 

 

“Not that I really have to tell you anything, Malfoy, but there’s a river behind the house and if it’s as clean as I remember then we’re bathing in it.” As she passed her bag, she swooped to pick it up and pull it onto her shoulder. 

 

She heard him stop for a moment. “Bathe?” 

 

“Yes,” she said, pulling the door open. “I’m assuming you’ve at least heard of the concept?” 

 

She saw the lines in his face lighten, the muscles in his jaw relax, and his ears perk ever so slightly. If it wasn’t Draco Malfoy she was staring at, she might have thought he were about to smile. 

 

Then it seemed as though he caught himself, and his frown returned. She turned on her heels and pushed through the door and onto the back patio. 

 

They marched through the overgrown garden and she paused at the back gate, running her hand over the weathered wood and remembering childhood days spent running in and out of it. She felt Malfoy behind her and picked her pace back up. Not far from the gate, just past a cluster of trees, was a small creek. She smiled; the water was just as clear as she remembered, and the rain had only served to raise the water level and quicken its flow. 

 

She stopped at the bank, inhaling deep to take in the scent of the fresh water, the clay of the bank, and the wildflowers growing around it. As Malfoy walked up next to her, she knew it was time. She would have to undress. It would be the third time he saw her do so, and while she doubted she’d ever be comfortable doing it, it at least made it easier. But… but he would have to undress as well. They would have to undress next to each other and get into the river together. For once, they would be on equal terms.

 

Reaching for her bag, she dug out a change of clothes for the both of them, two towels, two face cloths, and a bar of soap. She set them on a large rock by the bank and sighed. Pushing back her awkward discomfort and nerves, she pulled at the hem of her sweater. She knew she wasn’t going to tiptoe into the river, so why tiptoe into her underwear?

 

“Well?” she demanded, unbuttoning her jeans, acting as though none of this were bothering her. “You can’t bathe in your clothes.” She glanced back at Malfoy, and he was staring at the river, his scowl holding more disdain than ever. He finally looked to her and she raised a brow to him. He sighed, and his hands went to the buttons of his shirt. 

 

The water was icy and she felt the gasp she took vibrate throughout her entire body, sending a refreshing tingle to her fingertips and toes. She was knee deep before heard him cursing behind her, the water splashing as he yanked his foot out. 

 

She reached for her flannel and walked toward the center of the creek, the water stopping just under her chest at its highest. After taking a deep breath, she bent at the knee and took a dive under the water; better get it over with all at once than to drag it out. The near icy water numbed her wounds, both internal and external, and when she finally felt the need for air she surfaced, inhaling deep as she stood. 

 

“You're mad,” Malfoy said behind her. She turned, the water was only barely passed his knees. 

 

“You're the one prolonging your discomfort,” she responded, bring the soap to her flannel. She looked to the bubbles, studying them in an effort to avoid looking to him, to avoid seeing him looking at her. 

 

Eventually he was in as deep as she was, though the water only came to mid-chest on him, and she had to hand over the soap. 

 

“This smells like…” he brought the soap to his nose only to yank it away, “honeysuckle,” he drawled, glaring at her. 

 

She shrugged. “It's what I use.” 

 

He sighed and soaped up his own flannel. She watched the muscles in his arms move under his pale skin, and couldn't help but notice the slight definition in his chest. Her forehead wrinkled as she realized it was a much different muscle than, say, Viktor Krum had. It wasn't muscle built up over working out that defined his chest, at least, not any more. It was more like a complete absence of body fat, leaving the skin to pull tight over any muscles that might be left over from playing Quidditch, and now that she was looking him, his bottom ribs were very much there. 

 

“Now who's staring, Granger?” 

 

She swallowed. He smirked, proud and cocky, like he’d won something by catching her staring. 

 

“Didn't they feed you at that place?” she asked, trying to recover from the embarrassment. She was not gawking at him with any sort of attraction, it was purely out of curiosity, and she needed him to know that. 

 

Draco’s smirk faltered and he rolled his eyes. “Of course, the best there is.”

 

Hermione didn't ask any more questions, and instead set about trying to find a balance between scrubbing herself clean and keeping her wounds from breaking open. Her arms weren't nearly as bad as her legs, and it was difficult trying to get the backs of them with what she was sure was at least a fractured rib, but she managed. Her fingers hurt the worst. 

 

Then there was her hair. Normally she’d have special conditioner and comb for it, and she’d care for it in sections and take her time, but she didn't have any of that, so she did what she could to rinse and untangle it, and hoped for the best. Maybe if she dug deep into her bag she could find a hair tie for it later. 

 

She chanced another glance at Malfoy only to find him already looking at her. She expected to squirm under his gaze, to feel vulnerable and exposed but she didn't. His brow was set and there was something going on behind his eyes. 

 

“Where’d you get that scar, there, at the bottom of your stomach?”

 

She looked down, her fingers running over the old, deep pink scar running the length of her stomach. She nearly smiled. 

 

“The Whomping Willow, Third Year.” 

 

Draco scoffed. “Fine, don't tell me.” 

 

She could have argued with him, convinced him she was telling the truth, but she honestly didn't care- she was too wrapped up in her memories. 

 

When she felt as clean as she was going to get she headed for the bank, reaching for the towel as she climbed out of the creek. Draco followed suit. After setting a drying charm to her bra and underwear, she pulled on a fresh set of clothes and turned to see Draco pulling a sweater over his head and had to stifle a laugh. 

 

The clothes she’d pulled out were Ron’s and Harry’s, and while seeing them in a green Weasley sweater, jeans, and a pair of trainers was completely ordinary, seeing Malfoy in them was not. 

 

“Despicable,” he mumbled, pulling at the jumper. “Couldn’t you at least… charm it blue or something?” 

 

“And here I thought green was your color?” 

 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t like blue.” He tugged at the sleeves and reached around to scratch his shoulder. She ignored his continued grumbling and grabbed her dirty clothes and shoved them in her bag, then she reached for his. She froze when she felt something solid, long, and slender tangled up in them. 

 

“Um,” she heard, and looked up to see Malfoy wearing a very guilty and worried expression. She fumbled with his slacks until her fingers found the smooth wood of her Vine wand. She glared up at him. 

 

“You've had my wand this. Whole. Time?!” 

 

Malfoy had his hands up, palms facing her. “I wasn't going to use it on you I - I was just -” Her wand was now digging into his chest, her having quickly closed the distance between them. His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. “You think I wouldn’t keep a bargaining chip?” he spat, looking down at the wand, and then back up at her. 

 

She could feel her grip loosening. It was a smart move, and a very Slytherin thing to do at that… and he’d had every opportunity to use it and yet he hadn’t. She sighed and dropped her arm. As she gathered the rest of her things, the soap and the towels, she twisted her wand in her hand. She never thought she’d be so happy to have a stick in her hand, yet here she was, holding back tears of joy at the familiar weight of it in her hand. 

 

Back in house she fished out the last of the granola bars and they munched on them in silence. 

 

“So Muggles just… eat this stuff?” Malfoy asked, letting the wrapper fall to the ground. 

 

“Yes, and they also don’t throw trash on the floor,” she scolded. Malfoy rolled his eyes and moved the wrapper from the floor to the table. 

 

“Is this just where we live now?” he drawled, looking around the dusty room. 

 

Hermione bit at the inside of her cheek in response. She’d spent the whole day thinking about her next move and she’d come to realize that what she was that her decision rested on; whether or not she could trust Malfoy. She’d gone through everything; his behavior in the dungeons, his confession, his begging her to take him with her, over and over again. A voice in the back of her head kept poking and prodding at her, telling her it could all be some kind of elaborate trap. 

 

She looked down at her wand, at the bag in her lap where his wand rested, then back up at him.

 

But she tried to remember everything she knew about him, tried to recall any interaction before the war. He was never that great at hiding his feelings from his face, he’d had plenty of opportunities to play it cool in front of Harry and he’d failed to do so with every one. Even last year, she’d noticed the change in his behavior, and colour, nearly right away. 

 

She took a deep breath. 

 

“Can I trust you?” 

 

It wasn’t as though she were looking at him for the answer, but she was curious as to what his response would be. She saw him swallow, frown, avert his eyes, and furrow his brow. He sat up, his eyes burning holes into floor in front of him. 

 

“Malfoy?” Hermione reached out, but he pulled away.

 

“You shouldn’t,” he snapped. 

 

She frowned. “Why, because of that mark on your arm?” 

 

Her heart dropped when he looked up at her, his grey eyes dark and full of anger and hatred - but it wasn’t directed at her. 

 

“Because I’m a coward,” he spoke through his teeth, his voice fighting to leave his throat. “And you should never trust a coward.” 

 

Hermione didn’t know what to say. In all this time, she hadn’t really thought of him as a coward at all. She’d seen boy given a dark and impossible task, doing everything he could to complete it. A coward wouldn’t have denied Snape’s help over and over, a coward would given up before they even tried and let someone else take the fall. Furthermore, a coward wouldn’t have risked himself, his family, and everything they’d worked for to save the very thing they despised. He was a bigot, a bully, and a complete arse, but he wasn’t a coward. Not to her, anyway. 

 

“Actually,” she said after a moment, “I’ve found you can trust a coward to do what’s exactly what’s in their best interest.” She stood and pulled out her want. “And right now your best interest is with me.” 

 

She conjured a small orb of blue light and Draco’s eyes grew wide. 

 

“I’ve escaped,” she spoke into it. “I’ve escaped, I’m at my safe house, and…” she paused to look back at Malfoy, “and I’ve got a prisoner.” 

 

The orb pulsed with every syllable, then flew through the wall and out towards its intended recipient. 

 

“Was that…” Draco started, nearly breathless, “a Patronus Charm?” 

 

Hermione moved to the mantle and began collecting the photographs. “Yes,” she answered curtly. 

 

“What’s your corporeal?” His gaze was still fixed on the spot in the wall the Patronus left through. 

 

The corners of Hermione’s lips twitched. She could almost smell the mixture of earth and spice that was Ron, and if she concentrated, she could see his wide, goofy grin. But as more of his face formed in her mind, a flash of dark black curls and rotting teeth ruined it. 

 

“It’s an otter,” she answered, her voice cracking. She shoved the photos into her bag and marched toward her grandmother's bedroom, to see if there were any other keepsakes worth gathering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew. well, here it is, one of my favorite chapters to write. mainly bc it's just the two of them, alone and on their own. i hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, please like and comment! it really means a lot when you do :) hope y'all are doing well!


	11. Eleven

_She never liked plane landings._ Or, at least, she was pretty sure she never did. She couldn’t recall ever really being on a plane but it seemed like a perfectly logical thing for people not to like, and the current landing was definitely unpleasant. Humans weren’t really meant to fly, she felt. She double checked her seat belt, making sure it was secure, and she double checked the tray in front of her to make sure it would stay in its upright position. The plane jumped and her hands gripped the edges of the armrests, their corners cutting into her palms, but she didn’t let up. She closed her eyes and started to count. She didn’t open them until she heard the kindly, older gentleman next to her unbuckling his seatbelt. 

“All’s well, dear,” he said in a thick Welsh accent. She’d never been to Wales, or any of Great Britain for that matter, so she didn’t know how she knew it was Welsh- or more specifically Southern Welsh- but she did, and for some reason it was comforting to hear. She opened her eyes and gave him an appreciative smile. She loved smiles, hopefully he did, too.

Hand luggage in tow, she left the terminal; walking right past the baggage claim and towards the front doors. Walking through the busy airport, she held her head high and kept her shoulders back, as if she knew exactly where she was going. Maybe, if she pretended to know what she was doing, she could trick herself into actually knowing. She tried to focus, to think only brave thoughts and not allow her fears to overtake her but the noise around her was not making it easy. There were people yelling and laughing, luggage clicking along on the floor, garbled announcements coming through speakers in all directions, children crying - she was all but running, and she hadn’t even realized it. 

As she dashed through the doors to the taxis out front, her head cleared, the fresh air blowing away all other distractions, leaving only the thoughts of her husband. She missed him, more than she ever had before, more than she probably ever would. She knew why he didn’t understand, why he couldn’t understand - after all, she didn’t quite understand it herself, but something inside of her was tearing itself apart and she had to at least try to fix it. Tears stung her eyes as she found herself wishing he could have just trusted her, trusted that she wasn’t crazy, and came with her. Instead she’d snuck away in the night, worried that he might soon try to hospitalize her. 

She wiped her cheeks and took a deep breath as she neared the end of the sidewalk; she couldn’t fall apart now. A few taxis passed her up before one eventually stopped, its tall and gruff driver stepping out to help her with any presumed luggage.

“Where are your bags?” he asked, a hand on the boot of the car. She held up the small bag in her hand.

“Just the one.”

The man shrugged and the two of them got into the car.

“Where to?” he asked, pulling away from the curb. 

She froze. Her throat went dry and her heart felt like it stopped beating. She blinked away the tears brimming in her eyes and swallowed. 

“Lady, where to?”

She caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror, saw his confusion and annoyance. She moistened her lips, preparing to speak.

“Um… I’m sorry, um.” She took a deep breath. “K-King’s Cross Station.” She stuttered at first, but the last two words fell out of her mouth in a mixed up hurry. She didn’t know why that destination came to mind, but as soon as the words left her lips she felt as though it were the right answer. “King’s Cross Station,” she repeated, this time more sure of herself. 

The car came to a stop at a light and the driver turned in his seat. “In this traffic? That’s nearly four hours from here.” 

Her hands went into the front pocket of her bag and she pulled out a handful of colorful bills, bills that she might as well have stolen from her own bank account. “That’s okay,” she said, shoving the money into his hands. He took a moment to at least feign an incredulous look at her before turning back around and waiting quietly at the light. 

“It’s okay.” She mumbled, this time to herself, her hand resting over her heart. “It’s okay.”


	12. Twelve

_Ginny’s head weighed heavy as she rested it on Harry’s shoulder-_ almost as heavy as the sorrow and regret that clung to the moist air in one of the small dormer bedrooms of Shell Cottage. Ron slammed his fist down onto the bedside table out of frustration, jolting Harry and Ginny from their near-sleep. That’s when Harry noticed the sky behind the curtained window starting to grow lighter.

“Ron,” he started, his mouth dry with a mixture of trepidation and exhaustion. “Ron, we’ve been in here all night, mate. The sun’s coming up.” He motioned toward the window.

Ron’s jaw tightened, but Harry continued. “We’ve gone over what happened last night at least a dozen times or more.” He nudged Ginny’s arm. 

“Definitely more,” she picked up, trying to help the cause. She moved to sit next to her brother on the bed, “and we’re not going to have any new revelations if we don’t get some sleep.” 

Ron looked at Ginny, then to Harry, and he sighed. “I’m not sure I could sleep even if I wanted to.” He saw Harry’s eyes glaze over and felt Ginny’s spine slacken with disappointment through the lumpy mattress. “But you guys should,” he added, and then before they could protest, “no, really. I’ll be okay.” 

The bedroom door creaked open with obvious caution and delicacy, and there was his mother, carrying a tray of tea. “Thought you kids might still be up,” she said, half-disapproving but half-heartbroken. “At least have some tea.” She walked into the room and set the tray down next to Ginny, then handed her and Harry a cup. 

“Ron,” she said, holding his cup out to him, but he waved her off.

“No thanks, mum.”

But Molly didn’t budge. Ron sighed and took the cup. As he sipped, the warmth radiated through his body and he was, admittedly, grateful for it. He took a second sip and his eye began to feel heavy. It tasted familiar, like afternoons with his family at the Burrow, but a bit like something else that he couldn’t quite put a name to.

“Mum?” he asked through a yawn. His body felt weak, like his muscles were too heavy for his bones, and it was becoming an increasing struggle to hold his head up. The cup was taken from his hands as he stifled another yawn. 

“It’s just a spot of sleeping draught dear, don’t fight it.” Molly said soothingly, setting his cup back onto the tray. She shooed Ginny off the bed and moved the tray to the table. She pulled the blanket back and made sure Ron didn’t hit his head on the headboard. 

“You… drugged… me,” Ron mumbled, no outrage to be found in his lethargic words. Molly pulled the blankets up to his chest, tucking in her grown son for the first time since he was a small boy. 

“It was for your own good, come on now. No need to count the flitterbies tonight.” 

Ginny and Harry exchanged a look. “Um, Mum?” Ginny asked, looking at her own cup in concern. 

“Oh no, no, it was just Ron’s. I’m sure you two will go to sleep just fine on your own.” Ginny nodded but shot a concerned glance at her brother already asleep on the bed. She and Harry sat their cups down and turned to leave. 

Molly cleared her throat. “Harry, dear,” she said, looking quite sternly at him, then pointedly at the second bed, across from his snoring friend. 

“Oh, right, sorry.” He glanced at Ginny and saw she was suppressing a smile, causing a faint smile of his own to appear. He turned and headed for the bed while Ginny left the room for the one she shared with Luna. 

Molly, clearing up the tea dishes, gave him a tut. She extinguished the lights with a flick of her wand and shut the door behind her.

The lamps may have been off but the room was still filled with the soft light of the early morning sun and Harry stared up at the wooden rafters on the ceiling. He kept replaying what Malfoy’s mum had said. Well, what Ron said she said, anyway. 

“She should be here - wh-where’s Draco?” 

He tried to picture the scene as Ron had experienced it, piecing together what he had heard over and over until it was hard to distinguish from his own memories. He remembered the dungeon well enough, and he had enough memory of Mrs. Malfoy over the years to put together a vision of her face in his head. Ron saw her at the end of the hall, and she was right behind him on the stairs that led to the dungeons. Ron said she’d looked frantic, almost frightened, but wasn’t even reaching for her wand. 

“She should be here-” 

She’d expected Hermione to be there, that’s where they’d kept, that’s where she was supposed to be, he could gather that much. But it was the next part that confused him.

“- wh-where’s Draco?” 

Had she expected Draco to be there, in the dungeons, as well? Had Bellatrix - Voldemort even - put him there? If so, why? And then there was a lump in his throat. Was it because Draco had failed to identify them that first night in the manor? He’d seen the look on Draco’s face, he knew Draco had recognized him and yet… 

It was becoming nearly impossible for Harry to keep his eyes open, let alone keep up his racing thoughts. The room darkened as his eyelids drifted closed and one last question danced through his mind. 

Was Hermione with Draco?

Downstairs, Molly carried the tray into the kitchen and cleared it of its dishes. 

“Are ‘zey asleep?” Fleur asked. The early riser that she was, she’d been up for more than an hour and was preparing breakfast for herself, Molly, and Ollivander- who also seemed to be an early bird. 

“If they aren’t they will be soon,” Molly answered, drying her hands. Then she huffed, and Fleur’s shoulders tensed. “Really, the nerve of you all letting those children just waltz right into -”

“Ahh,” Ollivander started, seemingly unaware of the tension in the room, “the willpower of youth is something to be admired.” Fleur handed him a cup of tea, giving him a quick thankful glance. Molly eyed him, but made no move to argue. 

The odd trio sat in silence for some time, slowly eating their eggs and sausage, none knowing quite what to say to each other. Then, just before it became too unbearable, a loud crack outside broke through the sounds of flatware on plates and Tonks came through the kitchen door, her hair its natural color and her eyes heavy and tired. 

Fleur was quick to conjure up a chair and grab another teacup. 

“Is everything alright, dear?” Molly asked, reaching across the table to pat her hand. 

Tonks gave a weary yet reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, Molly. Teddy just woke up hours ago, and no matter what I did I couldn’t get him back to sleep.” 

Molly gave a knowing, sympathetic look. “I wouldn’t take it personal, babies can just feed off of your stress.” 

Tonks thanked Fleur for the tea and took a sip. “That’s what Remus said. He took Teddy, told me to get some air, and I ended up here.”

“And Remus? ‘ow is ‘ee doing?” Fleur asked, handing her a plate of food. 

“Better, he can stand at length now.”

“And your arm?” Molly added, nodding her head toward Tonks’ left shoulder.

“Oh, it’s fine. It could have been a lot worse. I keep playing last night over in my head and - Teddy could have lost both of us, in one go. What would he have done then?”

Molly was quick to stand and round the table. “Now don’t talk like that. He didn’t lose either one of you and that’s the important part.”

Tonks nodded, but her concern didn’t leave her face. “How’s the polyjuice potion coming?” she asked, a pointed effort to change the subject. Molly looked to Fleur, who scoffed and began to cut her sausage, her fork scraping a little too heavily on the plat.

“It would ‘ave been done by now, if weren’t for zat damned cat!” 

“It seems he went sniffing about a few days ago and -” Molly started, but Fleur dropped her silverware on her plate. 

“Zere was cat ‘air in my potion! I ‘ad to start all over again!”

Tonks didn’t know what to say, so instead she focused on her food. There was another bout of silence as the lot finished up their breakfast and then began tidying up. Ollivander took another cup of tea and made his way outside, to sit by the shore. 

“Mornin,” Bill said with a yawn, pulling his hair back as he walked into the kitchen. He greeted Fleur with a kiss and squeezed his mother’s shoulder. “There any sausage left?” he asked, peeking under the dishtowel covering the plate on the counter. He grabbed a fork and a napkin and plucked one from the plate. 

“How’s Ron?” he asked, more to the room than to anyone in particular. He noticed Fleur’s jaw tighten. 

“Your mother gave ‘im a sleeping potion,” she said, trying to hide her discontent. 

“Just a few drops,” Molly defended, “Nothing he didn’t need after the night he went through.” 

Tonks, sensing the friction, stood. “Thanks again for breakfast, Fleur. I should probably get back to my boys, though.” She opened the door to leave, but stopped in her tracks as she saw a shimmering ball of light bounding toward her. It flew past her and into the kitchen, hovering just above the table. Then, Hermione’s voice came from it. 

“I’ve escaped,” it said. “I’ve escaped, I’m at my safe house, and… and I’ve got a prisoner.”

“Oh,” Molly gasped. 

Bill and Fleur exchanged confused and worried glances. “Prisoner?” Fleur repeated. 

The room was abuzz with questions but it seemed as though no one could actually get one out until finally Tonks managed one.

“Wh - what did she mean, her safe house?” she asked, looking to Bill and Fleur, but they were just as lost as she was. The light fizzled and disappeared, leaving the four of them frozen and bewildered. 

“I know where she’s at,” came a raspy, sleepy voice, and they all turned to see Harry in the doorway. 

Molly rushed toward him in an attempt to usher him back up the stairs. “Harry, dear, you should be asleep,” she cooed, but he pulled away and moved around her. 

“I couldn’t - “ he started to explain, but quickly realized it didn’t matter to the moment. “I know where she’s at,” he repeated, this time more stern. Molly huffed. 

“I’ll go with you,” Tonks offered, and Harry nodded. 

Harry crossed the kitchen while Bill headed for the stairs. “I’ll prepare a room,” he said. 

“Bill, wait,” Fleur called after him, and followed him up the stairs. 

Harry reached Tonks and the two neared the door when he stopped and turned towards Molly. “Should we wake Ron?” 

Molly sniffed. “No,” she said sharply, as if it were the last thing she had control over and wasn’t going to let it go. “He needs to sleep, and there’s nothing much he could do right now anyway.” Still rebuffed, she turned to finish she dishes. Harry reached for Tonks’ hand and with a crack, he disapparated them.

**xxx**

_Hermione finished gathering her things, then turned her wand onto Draco._ Ropes, alight with magic, bounded from her wand and around his hands, tying them together. “Necessary precaution, you understand,” she said dryly.

Draco glared at her, but didn’t protest. Just as she opened the door she heard a crack, and in the distance saw two figures cresting the hill. Her heart swelled and she felt she might faint from the sheer relief of seeing her best friend running towards her. 

“Harry!” she cried, running from the door, leaving Draco tied up behind her. Harry was close enough now that she could see the green of his eye. His arms were out, her arms were out, they were nearly together. 

But then Harry was ripped back, flying away from her as Tonks grabbed the back of his shirt. “Sorry Harry,” she said, pulling him back and pushing him behind her. She trained her wand on Hermione, who went from ecstatic to utterly terrified. 

“Who were you with, and on what did you ride, when we moved Harry from the Dursley’s?” Her words, though it pained her to have to say them, were steady and clear. 

“What?” Hermione stammered, trying to hold back an ugly cry. She looked to Harry who watched on helplessly. He didn’t like it, but he knew it needed to be done. The last thing he wanted was for this to be some sort of trap.

Tonks took a deep, calm breath. “Who were you with, and -”

“Shacklebolt!” Hermione exclaimed, trying to regain herself and her thoughts. “I - I was with Kingsley and we were o-on a Thestral!” She wiped her face and pointed her hand at Tonks. “You were with Ron, on a broom, and - and Hagrid took Harry on the motorbike!”

Tonks closed her eyes and sighed with relief, then she moved and Harry and Hermione embraced at last. Hermione clung to Harry like he was a life vest in a hurricane, fearing that if she let go he might disappear right before her eyes. Harry squeezed her too, only to let go when she cried out in pain. 

“I’m sorry!” he cried, desperately reaching for her shoulders as she clutched at her ribs. 

Hermione looked up to reassure him that she was fine but for a split second his messy black hair turned into the long matted curls of Bellatrix and she gasped, falling backwards while trying to scurry away from him. “Hermione!” Harry exclaimed, still reaching for her. 

“Granger?” came a voice from further back, and both Harry and Tonks looked up to see Malfoy taking tentative step towards them, his arms in bound front of him. 

“Malfoy?” Harry gaped. Tonks drew her wand and Harry fumbled to follow suit. Draco stopped, but his eyes were still on Hermione. 

“I’m okay,” Hermione managed, holding a hand out to stop Malfoy, then grabbing Harry’s arm to pull herself up. Harry pried his eyes off of Draco to help Hermione up. “He’s okay,” she said to Tonks, but Tonks didn’t lower her wand. Harry looked between Hermione and Draco, trying to figure out exactly what was going on.

“He your prisoner?” Tonks asked, eyeing down the cousin she’d heard of but never actually met. His deep set, stormy eye and striking features reminded her of the pictures she’d seen of her grandfather. 

“Something like that,” Hermione answered, brushing herself off. “I’m sorry, Harry.” she said turning to him, “So much has happened and I just…”

“Hermione, stop, stop. It’s okay, it’s okay.” Harry pulled her to him and saw Malfoy behind her, his gaze now unfocused and staring at the ground. 

Harry rubbed his hand in circled on Hermione’s back, recalling the last thing he wondered before he fell asleep. Well, at least that question had been answered.

**xxx**

Back at the cottage, Bill and Fleur stood in the smallest room of their house. It was really only slightly bigger than a bathroom and they usually used it for storage, but Bill had it cleared of everything except for a transfigured day bed, a chair, and a table.

“So we are just going to keep a prisoner in our ‘ome?” Fleur asked, putting a pillow on the bed. 

“What choice do we have, Fleur?” Bill set the last box out in the hall. 

“And since when does ‘ze Order even take prisoners, huh?” 

Bill sighed and ran a hand over his face, then pulled his wife into his arms and rested his chin on her head. “We’re in the middle of a war, love. We’re going to have to do some things we don’t like.” 

“I know,” she said, her voice muffled in his chest, “I know.” Fleur took a deep breath and pulled away. “I’ll go and prepare a bed for ‘ermione.” 

Bill nodded and watched her leave. He made sure the one window in the room was charmed shut and double checked the rest of the room. Two pops, one right after the other, announced Harry and Tonks’ return. 

“What’s going on?” Ginny asked out in the hall, sleep still thick in her voice. Luna stood behind her, rubbing her own eyes. 

“Hermione’s back,” Bill started, “but -” 

Ginny didn’t hear anything else, she took off down the hall and staircase, with Luna following close behind. “Ginny!” Bill called, but she was gone. He reached the landing just after they did, having easily taken the stairs two by two and grabbed Ginny by the arm. 

“I know you’re excited, Ginny, but you have to give her some space. We don’t know what condition she’s in and she’s not… she’s not alone.” 

Ginny exchanged a look with Luna, then, after hearing the door open, they looked into the kitchen to see Harry walking with Hermione, supporting most of her weight. Luna gasped at the sight of her. 

“Bill!” Molly called, rushing to Hermione’s free side and helping her to a chair. Ginny and Luna followed close behind Bill. 

“Where’s Tonks?” He asked, and Molly nodded him towards the door. 

“Hermione!” Ginny cried, and Hermione looked up, tears in her eyes but a smile on her face. Hermione embraced Ginny, and then Luna, while Bill made his way outside. 

Waiting around the corner of the house, just out of sight, was Tonks. “The Malfoy kid?” he asked upon seeing them. “Is he the -”

Tonks nodded. “Wasn’t sure I wanted to just traipse him through the house.”

“Merlin forbid,” Draco mumbled. 

“Shut it,” Bill and Tonks said, nearly in unison. 

Bill drew his wand. “I’ll take him to the room.” 

“Thank you, Bill, I really should get back to Remus.” Bill nodded and a moment later she was gone. He grabbed Draco by the collar and apparated them into the room he’d prepared

In the kitchen, Hermione was even clinging to Dean, who’d woken up amidst the noise. Any friendly face was like heaven and she was glad for them all, but she’d still yet to see Ron and it was worrying her. 

“That’s enough, all of you,” Molly scolded, shooing everyone away and helping Hermione up. “Hermione, dear, Fleur’s prepared a bed for you. Do you think you can make it up the stairs?” 

“I’m fine Molly, reall -” 

“Now now, you’ve been through quite a lot. You need rest, and some looking over.” 

Part of Hermione wanted to keep up the protest, but another part, a stronger part, kept telling her that she was safe now, and that she could relax now, and that part was quickly draining her of her will to put up a fight.

It was her own bed that Fleur had prepared, opting to turn the sofa downstairs into a bed for she and Bill, and once Hermione’s head hit the pillow she couldn’t deny how soft and encompassing it was. For the next half hour she fought to stay awake as Fleur and Molly did what they could to tend to her injuries. They set her ribs to mending and some of her torn muscles to knitting themselves back together, while also giving her potions for the cuts and bruises and pain. 

“There there,” Molly said, finally pulling the covers over her and patting her back. “You sleep as long as you need. You’re safe now, love.” 

Molly stood to leave, but Hermione grabbed her by the hand. “Ron,” she managed, her eyes nearly closed,“where’s Ron.” 

“Shh, he’s sleeping too, dear. He’ll be here when you wake.”

**xxx**

_In the room, Bill patted Draco down, while Draco stared uncomfortably at the ceiling._ Having a Weasley of all people pat him down wasn’t exactly something he’d ever thought he’d allow to happen.

“You don’t think she’d have already done this?” he asked as Bill finished casting a series of detection charms over him. Bill straightened up and glared at him, his jaw flexing and his lips almost in a snarl. Draco swallowed averted his eyes. Without breaking his gaze, Bill pushed two fingers into Draco’s shoulder, forcing him into sitting on the bed; then took the seat on the chair across from him. 

Draco avoided rubbing his shoulder and looked around the room. The bed was flat, thin, and firmer than even the cot he’d slept on during the previous night. 

_But it wasn’t the solid stone floor of his dungeon._

The room was small, hardly bigger than the kitchen closet in the Manor, with a creaky wooden floor, a sloping ceiling, and one small, curtainless window. 

_But it wasn’t the dark, damp dimensions of his dungeon._

The overgrown and mangled Weasley sat in the only chair in the room, with a small, single, table between them, and it didn’t look like he was going anywhere. Draco had the feeling there would always be someone in that chair.

_But it wasn’t the echoing emptiness of his dungeon._

After a few minutes of silent, menacing glaring, Weasley finally leaned back and reached for the well-worn book of curses that sat on the table. Draco rolled it eyes at the ridiculous display and turned his attention toward the window, where he could just make out the shoreline. He watched as the waves just barely touched the shore before retreating back into the ocean, and was reminded of a summer vacation he’d had years ago on the beaches of Italy. 

Before the war, before everything was torn to shit, back when it was just him and his parents. He’d dug a hole in the sand, right where the waves died before receding, so that when he sat in it he could feel the sand wash over his legs and through his toes. If he closed his eyes he could hear the gulls, and see his mother and father lounging behind him. 

A lump formed in his throat. That may never happen again. He may never even see them again, let alone see his family together and happy. 

He went to move his hand, to reach up and scratch his cheek, but he’d forgotten that he was still bound at the wrist. He cleared his throat, but the Weasley beanstalk didn’t budge. He tried again.

“I take it this room’s secure, yes?” 

Bill finally lowered his book just low enough to glare at him. 

“Right, so do you think you could…” He wiggled his wrists a little, but Bill just went back to reading. “Okay then,” he mumbled, and went back to looking out of the window, back to Italy. 

After what felt like a moment, but what must have been over an hour judging by the sunlight, the door to the room opened and in walked a tall, wisp of a woman with bright hair and skin that seemed to glow. She was familiar, but Draco couldn’t quite place where he knew her from.

“Il y a des temps pour une petite pause, mon amour,” she said softly with a perfect accent. Bill stood and the two exchanged a quick kiss. Draco tried not to gawk but he was astounded. A Weasley - with someone as beautiful as her? 

In a heartbeat her soft and delicate features turned sharp and threatening. She eyed him as she took a seat on the chair, quickly flashing her teeth. Draco was sure he was just stressed and exhausted, but he could have sworn that for a split second her teeth went from straight and pearly white, to sharp and and ragged. It was an obvious warning, this girl was not what she seemed. 

Draco shifted on the bed, moving further away from the edge, further away from her. 

**xxx**

_Ron’s head pounded as he tried to open his eyes._ The room was brighter, flooded with the afternoon sun light. He groaned as sat up, his vision hazy and his head spinning. For a moment, a brief peaceful moment, he forgot what was going on. For a moment, it felt as though he were a kid again, waking up in the middle of a summer day at his aunt’s house.

“Hey,” came a soft voice, startling him. 

“Luna?” he asked, squinting his eyes. “Wha-” And then it all came crashing back and his heart turned to lead in this chest. “Water,” he croaked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He heard a few clinks and then there was Luna’s hand on the back of his, and a cold glass in his grasp. 

“Ron,” Luna started as he downed the water. He brought the glass down and took a deep breath, then finally really looked at her. Her eyes were brighter, and he felt like she was suppressing a smile. Luna took the empty glass from his hands, then smiled. “Ron, she’s back.” 

He heard the words but they didn’t make sense. She must have read it on his face. 

“Hermione, she’s asleep in Bill and Fleur’s room. She’s back.”

He nearly fell out of the bed trying to get up, his body still slightly weak from induced the sleep, but he caught himself on the footboard and straightened up. 

“Ron,” Luna says again, this time with a little more caution in her voice. Ron stopped at the door and turned. “She’s hurt pretty bad... I didn’t want it to shock you.” 

He gave her a nod, grateful for the warning. “Thanks.” 

It took four long strides for him to cross the hall and get to the door of Fleur and Bill’s bedroom. It took longer for him to even touch the handle. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, what he was scared of. He’d spent weeks trying to get her back, and now she was on the other side the door, just a few yards away from him. His heart pounded and his hand, still hovering above the door knob, shook. 

The door behind him opened and he turned. “Oh, I zought you were Bill,” Fleur said.

“What are you doing in the -” he started, but his gaze had already drifted passed her, beyond the door, into the room, and onto the pallid, pointed face of Draco Malfoy. “Why -” he started, his muscles tensing and his finger pointing underhandedly in his general direction, but Fleur was quick to step into the hall and shut the door behind her. She grabbed his hand, a calming gesture. 

“We don’t know what ‘appened,” she said softly. She turned him back towards the door to her bedroom. “We don’t know ‘ow she got out, or... why ‘e was with ‘er. All we know is zat she is safe and ‘e is cooperating. We will figure ze rest out later, but for now- she needs you.” She reached passed him and opened the door, pushing it open.

The sight of Hermione calmed him, instantly pushing everything else from his mind. His chest sunk and his knees grew weak and as he watched her chest rise and fall tears prickled behind his eyes. Fleur gave him a gentle push and he took a few steps in and the door clicked behind him. 

His feet seemed to carry him to the bed without any input from his brain. How could his brain do anything else when all he could focus on was her? He neared the bed, and there was a chair already next to it. There was a flushing sound and the door on the other side of the room clicked open and Harry appeared, wiping his hands on his jeans. Harry stopped in his tracks and the two locked eyes, then he smiled. 

“It’s really her,” he said, as if he knew what Ron was thinking, as if he’d had the same doubts himself.

Ron briskly wiped his cheeks and cleared his throat, trying to dissuade the uncomfortable feeling of incoming tears.

“I tried to wake you up hours ago,” Harry said, walking around the bed, but Ron waved him off.

The two of them stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at their best friend, and for the first time in a long time there was a feeling of hope. They were tangled up in a messy, bloody war- people had died and more would follow. The wizarding world would be forever scarred, but the three of them were together and they had hope again. Hope that they could face whatever was coming in the way that they always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i know the last chapter was a bit confusing, but all in good time my dears. all in good time. if it helps, that chapter was a jump in space, not time. 
> 
> hopefully you all love this chapter!! thanks so much for all the reviews and your continued readership, it all means so so much to me!!


	13. Thirteen

Fleur, _that_ was her name. He’d been tearing his mind apart trying to place her, until he finally realized that she’d been the Beauxbatons’ champion for the Triwizard Tournament. That’s where Draco recognized her from. He almost laughed. Back then he’d hardly given her a second thought as a competitor, and now she sat before him as his prison guard. Her, as breathtaking as she was, with a _Weasley_.

 

Though he made a pointed effort not to stare at her, he could still see her pulling something out of her pockets. Even out of the corner of his eye he knew they must have been charmed because she pulled out two long needles, a ball of yarn, and a half finished… something. With her back straight and her nose held gracefully in the air, she spread her current project across her lap and picked up where she’d left off, a rhythmic clicking emanating from her needles. It was a decently-sized, pastel orange rectangle, or it would be, and Draco wondered if it were possibly a baby blanket.

 

_Was she pregnant?_ She couldn’t have been more than a few years older than him. Was she aware that there was a war going on? Why would anyone choose to have a child in the middle of a war?

 

“Oh,” he let out, the answer hitting him like a punch to the gut. Fleur glared at him for a moment but went back to her knitting when he averted his eyes.

 

It all came rushing back to him; the letter on his mother’s desk and the signature at the bottom, the response she’d written but didn’t send - the he’d sent out of his own accord. There had been a birth in _his_ family, the part of his family that were on _this_ side of the war. That blanket was, in all likelihood, for that same baby. He glanced back at the blanket and spotted three letters stitched onto the bottom corner. _ERL_. Something in him felt unsettled, knowing that there was a child out there who was a part of his family, and yet at the same time, decidedly not. Had he avoided his parents’ room that day, he may not have ever even found out about this new relative of his. He squirmed, acutely aware of and very distressed by the thought that decisions made decades ago could impact _infants_ today.

 

Muffled voices and footsteps could be heard from the hall, bringing him out of his thoughts and back into the moment. He looked to the ethereal woman across from him- _Fleur._ She seemed either not to notice or care about what was going on outside of the room, she just kept knitting.

 

Draco opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. There was an uncomfortable aching in his chest that he could only attribute to an unanswered question, however begrudgingly. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should say anything, whether or not he was actually allowed to. But finally, he decided that it was worth a shot. “Um...H-how is she?”

 

Fleur stopped moving her needles, but she didn’t look at him and she didn’t answer.

 

Sighing, he fell back on the bed. He didn’t even know _why_ he wanted to know, _why_ he cared so much about what happened to _her_. What went on in his family home was awful and sickening. He’d accepted that he needed out, and realised that she was his ticket, but caring about the outcome of her life shouldn’t have even been an issue. She was a means to an end, and he was at that end- he was out, it shouldn’t have mattered how she was. Yet there he sat, images of her dancing behind his eyelids, concerns about her nagging at his thoughts.

 

He must have fallen asleep at some point, despite the hard and lumpy bed, because the next thing he knew his hands were finally free of their magical binds, and the tall Weasley was trading places with Fleur. Bill had had another stint as his guard and Draco hadn’t even noticed.

 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he heard Bill mutter, and Fleur nodded. She didn’t have any knitting to do this time, instead she simply stood by the door, staring straight ahead.

 

He rubbed his eyes and sat up, stretching out his sore neck. He winced with every twitch of pain, each one accompanied by a flash of her injuries; her back marbled with bruises, the ribbons of blood on her legs, the brightness in her eyes fading as she retreated deeper into her mind. He tried to steady his breath, a change Fleur must have noticed because she snapped her head in his direction. Avoiding her glare, he distributed his weight on the bed.

 

He had yet to allow himself to come to terms with what actually was going on. For the past month he’d been taking each moment and processing them as they happened, then filing it away, pushing it to the back of his mind without allowing it to connect to the _next_ moment. It was like hoarding all of the pieces to a puzzle but refusing to put them together because you know just how horrible, how heartbreaking, how _life-altering_ the finished work would be. But now the pieces were starting to come together on their own volition, as if they were magnets ripping through the synapses of his brain, forcing him to stand face to face with what he’d done and the choices he’d made, with everything that led him to this moment.

 

It was an insurmountable pressure, a crushing weight, breaking him down and grinding him into dust. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes again and ran them over his face. Across the room, Fleur drew his attention towards her, shifting her weight from one leg to the other and recrossing her long, thin arms.

 

“She is resting,” she said without looking at him, her accented voice soft and yet still haughty; bearing all the evidences of good breeding that he had been raised to respect. Draco looked to her and swallowed, although the lump in his throat didn’t shift.

 

“Thank you,” he managed. She didn’t acknowledge his response.

 

A few minutes later there were more footsteps behind the door, and another voice. Fleur opened the door. “Oh,” he heard her say, “I zought you were Bill.” Something in her voice was gentle, but disappointed at the same time.

 

From the crack in the door he spotted a lanky redhead- but it most certainly wasn’t Bill. “What are you doing in the -” Ron stopped when he caught sight of Draco. They locked eyes, Draco’s spine stiffening and his jaw clenching. It was an instinct with Weasley, to brace himself and hurl an insult. Before he could see anything else though, Fleur stepped into the opening and shut the door behind her. Draco could hear her soft, rhythmic voice trying to calm her brother-in-law down.

 

He wanted to scoff to himself. _Good riddance_ , he wanted to think. _The Weasleys had their beloved little Granger back, they could bloody well keep her_. He wanted to think of them- the Weasleys, Potter, the whole lot of them- as self-righteous and brash idiots on a pointless crusade for Good, whatever that was. He wanted to write them off and laugh at their futile efforts, but he just couldn’t quite find the energy or motivation.

 

Instead his mind kept returning to one thread of bleak and empty thought; that nobody really _cared_ about _him_. At least not in the way that the Weasleys cared about her. He wouldn’t have a battalion of friends boldly risking their lives for the mere chance of saving his. That wasn’t how things worked in Slytherin, no foolish acts of bravery when the risks were so high. They looked after their own, of course- but subtly. Not like this. Never like this. He knew his parents would have come looking for him if they could, but they were occupied with hosting a volatile horde of sycophants in their home and treading as carefully as possible under the ever-watchful eye of the Dark Lord. Was there a single soul out there who openly wondered where he was, fretting over his safety the way this whole group seemed to have been doing for Granger?   

 

* * *

 

 

Ron was more than half asleep when Hermione finally stirred. “Ron,” Harry said from the other side of the bed, where he sat holding her other hand. Hermione mumbled, only marginally awake. “Ron,” he said, louder this time.

 

Ron inhaled sharply, suddenly wide awake in the way only someone who had become used to a life on the run could be. He yawned while Harry stood up slowly, not wanting to jar their waking friend.

 

“I’m going to go get Fleur, she’ll want to check her dressings.” Harry said.

 

Ron seemed to wake up fully then and he grasped Hermione’s hand tighter. She groaned again and Harry quickened his pace.

 

“Hey you,” Ron said softly as her eyes fluttered open. How many nights had he stayed up wondering what he would say to her, planning his words for the moment they were reunited? Even when she was presumed dead, he kept playing all the unsaid words over again in his mind. He might have been disappointed with how simple they were, not the grand expressions of affection he had considered. But those words were like their relationship, after all; simple, natural, comfortable.

 

Hermione looked over to Ron, and for one moment -for a few terrifying, gut-wrenching seconds- she was back in those awful dungeons being mercilessly tortured by that horrible woman wearing the faces of her loved ones. She snatched her hand back, pulled herself away from him and into a ball on the other side of the bed, frightfully aware that she was wandless, _defenseless_ , and somewhere unfamiliar.

 

“Hermione,” he said, his words half a sigh, pity and relief all at once. “Hermione, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s just me.” He reached for her, pushing her even further into her mind. He seemed to realize that it was the wrong move and took his arm back with a broken-hearted look in his eyes, like she was some sort of injured animal.

 

She looked around at the room and it seemed to zoom in and out on itself, her vision focusing and refocusing on different areas; the light wooden floors, the soft curtains over the windows, the braided rug on the floor, the weathered wardrobe in the corner, the soft floral-print quilt on top of her, and finally, Ron. It all made her dizzy. She covered her face with her hands, thinking she might be sick. She just wanted the spinning to _stop_.

 

“Is it really you?” she whispered, her throat tight. A weight dropped on to the bed beside her, and then a hand lightly pressed into her back.

 

“Y-yeah,” Ron stammered, “yeah of _course_.”

 

She fell into him, let him pull her closer, and inhaled; musk, soap, _earth_. It was actually him. Her exhale was more than a release of breath, it was a release of fears and anxieties. “The smell is right. You’re you and you’re not anyone else,” she found herself mumbling.

 

He chuckled nervously, cluelessly, and squeezed her shoulder. “Who else would I be?”

 

Bellatrix flashed through her memories and her stomach flipped and constricted. She crawled off of the bed, only barely stopping herself from falling, and stumbled into the bathroom. She dry-heaved into the toilet, her ribs screaming and healing wounds threatening to break open. Then Ron was behind her, rubbing her back and holding her hair.

 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled as he was helping her back into bed. He handed her a glass of water.

 

Ron shook his head, his face wrinkling. “Hermione no, no _I’m_ sorry. I should have done more, I should have stayed in-”

 

“Then you would just be _dead_. Knowing you all got out, that you were safe- that’s what kept me going. If you’d have been dead I wouldn’t have…” She stopped, wiping the tears from her face. “We wouldn’t be here, either of us.”

 

There was a gentle knock at the bedroom door, announcing a presence as opposed to waiting for permission to enter. Molly and Fleur came through the threshold, Ginny trailing behind them. Molly held a dinner plate that was covered with a small kitchen towel, and Fleur had a healer’s bag full of medical supplies and potions. Ginny walked passed him and into the bathroom and began drawing a bath.

 

“Ron,” his mum started, her tone soft but leaving no room for argument, “you need to eat. Your dinner's downstairs getting cold.” He opened his mouth to protest but she tilted her head, daring him to disobey her. He sighed and trudged out of the room.

 

In the hall, Dean stood poised to open the door to the room that held Malfoy, paused with his hand hovering above the handle. “What’s going on?” Ron asked.

 

“Bill asked me to take over while he ate something,” Dean answered, sounding as uncomfortable as he looked about going in there.

 

“Oh, I’ll get it,” Ron said, trying to sound as casual as possible, but Dean hesitated. There was history there, and Dean had seen first hand how protective Ron could be of his friends. Ron sighed, “I’ll be fine, honest. It’s not like I’m going to Avada him, Mum would have my head.”

 

Dean looked from Ron, to the door, and back again. Ron could see that he really didn’t want to have to go in there. “Alright,” Dean mumbled, “but you need to leave your wand out here.”

 

Ron nodded and set his wand on the floor, nervously cracking his knuckles, turning his attention towards the door. He took a deep breath, calm and steady- at least on the outside.

 

* * *

 

 

The door creaked open but Draco didn’t open his eyes until he heard the chair dragging across the floor, moving closer to his bed. He slowly opened one eye, only to sigh when he saw Ronald Weasley, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly together between them, eyes staring intently at him. Draco sat up, propping himself on the frame of the bed, lacing his fingers over his stomach and crossing his legs at the ankles. He’d known this would happen eventually, that he would have to face his former classmate.

 

He waited for Ron to say something, anything, but he just stared at him, jaw clenched and the veins in his arms throbbing, seething rage rolling off of him in waves. His hair had grown longer since the last time Draco had seen him, and his eyes seemed to have aged beyond his years. His shoulders were broad, and there were swirled scars wrapped around his tensed forearms. His leg was bouncing, the energy nervous but distinctly _angry_.

 

He ground his teeth and looked around the room as Ron continued to stare him down. Draco was counting the seconds; it was just over nine minutes before Ron spoke.

 

“What did you do to her?” he finally asked, a growl in the back of his throat, his voice low and deadly.

 

Draco looked at him, but didn’t answer. He knew on some level that it would only provoke Ron, but he wanted to see how far he could push him. Ron’s breathing grew heavier, any illusion of control steadily fading.

 

“What did you do to her?” he repeated after another long bout of silence, pronouncing each word carefully as if Draco simply hadn’t understood him. Draco still didn’t answer, still kept counting; five more minutes passed.

 

“When you had her _locked up in your dungeons_ , what did you do to her?”

 

Draco didn’t quite know why but he felt he corners of his lips pull up ever so slightly. There was something familiar, something _comfortable_ , in antagonizing Weasley. And it really was too simple to incite a reaction from him. Two minutes, possibly a new record. He stood and the chair went flying across the room and in seconds he was at his throat, pinning him to the wall with his forearm.

 

“WHAT DID YOU _DO_ TO HER?!”

 

Draco tried to resist his urge to swallow, knowing it would only hurt and leave his windpipe exposed to bruising. Instead he smiled. “Careful there Weasel, someone might hear you, and we both know your side doesn’t do torture.” Ron threw his fist into the wall next to Draco’s face, causing him to let out a cough that sputtered into a low chuckle. “I knew you Weasleys were blood traitors, but _savages_?”

 

“Don’t bring my family into this.” The words forced themselves out through his gritted teeth before he slammed his fist into Draco’s stomach; eliciting another cough and another, weaker, laugh.

 

Draco couldn’t stop himself, he needed to twist the knife just that bit further. “Is _Granger_ your family too, Weasley? How quaint. Funny how she hasn’t already told you what happened between us.” Ron landed another blow, this time into his side. That was all the confirmation Draco needed. “She really _doesn’t_ confide in you, does she?”

 

As the pain radiated through his torso, Draco couldn’t help but keep smiling. There was something gratifying in the pain in his ribs, a welcome distraction from the thoughts eating away at his mind. Maybe he thought he deserved it, maybe it reminded him that he was still alive, maybe it was just something to do. He eyed Ron. “Do you know which song her mother hummed while doing the washing up?” He was flat-out taunting him now.

 

“Shut up!” Ron growled, and turned his violent attention to Draco’s face. “You don’t get to talk about her!” The warm blood dripped from his mouth and ran down his jaw.

 

“What about the first time she used her magic?”

 

“SHUT UP!”

 

There was a crack on his nose and blood began pouring down his face, over his lips and to his neck. His smile was bloody but he felt a smug and nearly giddy sense of satisfaction, like the high from catching the snitch. “Have you ever even _heard_ _her sing_?”

 

Ron lurched and threw him to the ground, sending him crashing into the edge of side table that had been next to the chair. It clattered to the floor next to him as Ron reached down and grabbed him by the collar. There was a terrifying gleam in his eyes when he raised his fist and Draco realized that he might actually cause some serious damage if he didn’t stop him. He finally held his arm up, surrendering and shielding himself as he spit out the blood in his mouth. Ron was breathing hard, like a bull just waiting to charge again.

 

“I _fed_ her,” Draco croaked, then coughed and swallowed as blood dripped from his sinus cavities into the back of his throat. “I gave her water, healed her with my own magic.” He inhaled, still not able to catch his breath, and locked eyes with Ron “I helped her _escape_.” Ron seemed to take in what he was saying, and dropped his arm a little. Draco sagged to the floor with relief and lowered his gaze. “And she helped me,” he spat, wiping his lip with his thumb.

 

“Ronald!” The two of them looked up to see Granger at the now-open door, an admonishing look on her face, and Harry and Ginny right behind her. She was in clean clothes, and her hair was dripping water onto her shoulders; the lacerations on her arms, already pink and healing, looked better now that they had been cleaned.

 

Ron’s dropped his arm completely and he let go of Draco’s collar. Draco dropped fully onto the floor, his head bouncing on the wood.

 

“Come on, mate,” Harry mumbled, pushing by Granger to grab Ron by the sleeve. He looked concerned, but not wholly surprised.

 

“What? No!” Ron protested as Harry pulled him into the hall. “We can’t just leave her in here alone with him!”

 

Draco watched Granger whip around on her heels, and for a split second felt pity for Ron. “No one is _leaving_ me anywhere,” she barked. “Now go!” Ron looked from her, to Draco, and back to her again, his face contorted as if he were trying to translate Runes, then he let Harry pull him off.

 

Granger turned to the Weasley girl. “Gin, will you get me a damp cloth?” she asked, her tone much softer. Ginny nodded and disappeared down the hall, and Granger finally turned toward him.

 

Their eyes met for a moment. _If I had known this was what it took to see her_ \- he cut his thoughts off before they could finish, and closed his eyes. “You should really keep that thing on a leash,” he spat, dabbing at his lip.

 

“I highly doubt you're entirely innocent in this,” she responded. The next thing he knew her fingers grazed his nose and he let out a wince. “Oh, don’t be a baby,” she snapped, and then brought out her wand.

 

“And here I thought there was a no wand policy, lest the prisoner get a hold of one.” He’d meant for it to sound witty, like his nose _hadn’t_ just been broken, but instead it came out nasally and breathless, petulant and childish.

 

She just scoffed, raising an eyebrow at him. “Please, I could hand you _your_ wand and you wouldn’t do a thing. Just - sit still.” She took a moment to examined his face in silence. “This must be my penance for third year,” she joked, however weakly. She sniffed. “But you deserved that punch, you were a right prat.”

 

He held his head back, allowing her more access to his face. “I had to explain to my father that not only did you have better grades than I did, but you also broke my nose. Which textbook taught you to hit, Granger?”

 

He saw her fight back a smirk and something small stirred in his stomach. Their dynamic felt different now that the threat of his aunt had been made more distant. At the very least they were much more comfortable around each other than they ever had been, in another life they may have even called whatever it was between them friendship, however tentative.

 

“I _broke_ _your nose_?” There was a small laugh in her voice, some kind of mix of incredulity, amusement, and pride.

 

Her chuckle stabbed him through the heart and he grabbed her wrist. “Granger,” he said, quietly, somberly. “You’ve done more than enough penance.” She didn’t reply, instead returning to mending his busted nose. The moment had clearly passed.

 

Right as she muttered the word _Episkey_ , two more people showed up in the door frame: his old professor and that Thomas kid from Gryffindor. “What happened here?” Lupin asked. Just then Ginny squeezed by them and into the room, handing Granger the wet flannel.

 

“It’s my fault, sir,” Thomas mumbled, “I left Ron alone with him.”

 

“Ah, well. You can’t blame yourself for his actions.”

 

Draco just wished they’d go away. He was sure they were all getting enjoyment out of watching him lie bloodied on the ground. Granger touched the cloth to his face and he winced again. “It’s cold,” he muttered, and he heard Ginny try to hide a snicker before leaving the room. He brought his hand up to take the cloth, but instead it rested on Granger’s for a moment, almost as if it had a mind of its own. They locked eyes again, and this time it was she who broke away, pulling her hand with her but leaving the cloth.

 

Within all of four seconds, everyone except his old professor was gone. The door was shut again, and Lupin was fixing the chipped plaster from the dent in the wall and righting the overturned table and chair. “Your turn,” he said, reaching down to grab him under the arm. “Up you get, atta boy.”

 

“I’m not a bloody dog,” Draco grumbled, snatching his arm back and sitting on the bed. Lupin just looked amused and sat down, pulling a book from his ratty cloak. It was as if nothing had even happened.

 

* * *

 

 

In the hall, everyone had cleared out, each going their own ways, leaving just Harry and Hermione. For a moment neither one of them spoke. “I was gonna…” Harry started, jerking his head at the door behind him, where Ron was waiting in Bill and Fleur’s bedroom.

 

Hermione shook her head. “No. It should be me. I’ll talk to him.” She knew that Harry would talk to Ron if she asked, but she also knew that he’d much rather not. Harry gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then headed downstairs. Hermione took a breath, and pushed the door open slowly.

 

Ron was pacing the floor, but stopped when she entered the room. He looked to her, making a sudden move in her direction. She couldn’t stop the flinch that stuttered from her body.

 

“Hermione?” he exhaled weakly, his tone breaking her heart. He slowed but didn’t stop, and Hermione’s chest felt like it was trying to close in on itself. She pulled back, moving her hands into the air only to change directions half way and curl them into fists at her sides, and then flatten them on her hips; she didn’t know what to do with them. “Hermione, I would _never_ hurt you.”

 

“I know that, Ron. I just- a lot happened in that dungeon and I…” She inhaled sharply, trying to keep the tears at bay, and reached for his hand. They sat on the bed and he turned to her, holding her hands in his. She'd forgotten just how much bigger they were than hers, normally strong and calloused from Quidditch; but now dry and worn, the skin raw from some sort of manual labour.

 

“You know you can talk to me.”

 

She gripped his hands tighter, her face pulling into a grimace. “I _can’t._ I’m sorry but I can’t relive that. Not yet, not now.”

 

Ron looked hurt, but nodded, and they sat there quietly for a long time. At one point she laid her head on his shoulder and felt his chest shudder as he inhaled.

 

Finally he swallowed, then asked, “How… What happened with Malfoy?”

 

She sighed and sat up, taking a moment to stretch her neck. “I told you, a lot happened and Malfoy he - he brought me food, water, even forced me to drink when I put pride before survival. He bandaged me up everytime Bell-” She stopped, not even able to say her name. “I know they were trying some sort of psychological manipulation but it… it _backfired_. The last night after she - well, he tended to my injuries, and we were there in the dungeons when we heard crashes and fighting going on above us.” She took a pause to gauge Ron’s reaction, to glance at his face; his brows were pulled down together and his lips were in a scowl, but he remained quiet.

 

“He gave me his wand, Ron.” She stressed, putting a hand on his chest. She saw him working his jaw. “He said it would get me out, and I could have left, right then and there. I had him at wandpoint, it would have been easy.” Ron pulled away, getting up to pace the floor again. “He begged me to take him with me, _told_ me to take him hostage if it would get him out of there.”

 

“And you trusted him?” He finally spoke, his voice louder than she expected. “You brought him here?”

 

She stood. “No! Of course not, not at first! I brought him to my safe house, I vetted him, and I knew The Order would take all the necessary precautions. I just - I believe there’s still hope for him, and if there’s still hope then we have to take a chance. Don’t we? We’re no better than them if we don’t have hope.”

 

“Hope for him?” His voice raised an octave, his hands weaving through his hair. “Hermione, there _isn’t_ any hope for him, there never has been.” He took a deep breath to calm himself but his eyes stayed focused on the floor, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “You could have left him there, but you didn’t.” He stated, tone suddenly steady, which somehow seemed worse than yelling. “Instead you brought a marked Death Eater into my brother’s home, instead you put all of us in danger.” He finally looked at her, a world of anger and hurt and pain in his eyes.  “That crash, that fighting - that was _us_. We risked our lives for you, and you left with _him_.”

 

The air left her body in one strong gust and she fell back onto the bed as she watched him leave. Tears fell from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks and onto Fleur’s lavender-scented pillowcase. She stared at the open door; he hadn’t even bothered to slam it. The longer she stared the more her anger eclipsed her sadness, and she eventually wiped her face, marched to the door, and slammed it herself. She was torn. One part of her knew that Ron was just angry and hurt, and that he lashed out when that happened, but another part also knew that this was all _so much bigger_ than him and his ego, and was furious with him for being so blind to that. Did he really not believe that if there was a chance they could save a soul, _any soul_ , they had to take it?

 

The was a small knock at the door, and then came Harry’s cautious voice. “Hermione?” She opened the door and he gave her a sympathetic look. “Fleur thought you might want this.” He held out a small vial full of a gleaming, purple liquid. “Dreamless Sleep” he explained as she took it.

 

“Hows Ron?” she asked, and Harry frowned. He paused as if he didn’t know how to say what he knew he had to.

 

“He left, went to stay with his parents. Said that he couldn’t stay under the same roof as Malfoy. Tried to get Ginny to go, too.”

 

Hermione blew out through her nose. Of _course_ he left. He had done it once before, why not again?

 

“I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow,” Harry reassured. They shared a look and Harry turned to leave.

 

“Harry,” she said softly. He stopped and turned back. “Could you… stay here, just until I fall asleep?”

 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “of course.” She gave him a thankful smile and unstoppered the potion bottle. A few moments later they were both in bed, her under the covers and him on top of them. Her back was to him and there was an empty space between them, but just knowing he was there made all the difference.

 

“Thank you,” she mumbled, then drifted to sleep as the potion took effect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy jesus has it been forever. i'm so sorry guys! this story just kind of got away from me there for a while but it's updated now and that's all that matters! i want to thank you guys for sticking with it if you have, and promise to do better with updating in the future. i've got 14 and 15 planned out, so hopefully there will be another one soon! again, thank you guys so much for reading and please review if you liked it even a little, it really means the world to my beta and i!


	14. Fourteen

Draco didn't know how long it had been, but his former professor was a third of the way through the book he had been reading. He could see the night sky outside of the small window, it was dark enough to suggest an hour well into the evening but without any visible stars. There was a tension in the room, an unspoken battle of wills. He knew that the shabbily dressed old man was simply biding his time, waiting for him to say something; to ask about Granger, or the Order, or that damned book of his. It was the way he was holding the book, the distinct way he was very pointedly _not_ looking at him, Draco could just feel it- and he would _not_ give him the satisfaction.

Refusing to lose the competition he hadn't even agreed to partake in, he began to count the wide, wooden planks which made up the floor- of which there were twenty-seven (and a half, really, as one had been cut to meet the wall). Then he turned his attention to his own nails, scraping every bit of dirt out. When they were acceptably tended to, he studied the quilt on the bed, picking at a frayed seam until the threads were even looser than before. After that he tried to count the tiny blue flowers that formed stripes along the fading wallpaper, but gave up around two hundred and thirteen. He tried anything to keep from engaging with Lupin. He even briefly attempted to recall of his mother's face. He tried to remember what it looked like when she smiled, how the corners of her eyes crinkled and her cheeks turned a faint pink, but it had been so long since she'd smiled and the struggle to remember her only drove him further into his mind, which was a grey and fogged place he most definitely didn't want to be.

There was nothing left to count, nothing left to pick at, nothing to continue to distract him, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open. Finally he sighed through his nose. "Alright then, what's the book about?" he asked, as though Lupin had been begging him to ask for hours and he was finally giving in if only to do him a favor. But instead of smiling, or gloating over the win, Lupin jumped, startled by Draco's voice. It was a genuine reaction, almost as if Lupin had actually forgotten where he was or what he was supposed to be doing.

Lupin cleared his throat. "Oh," he said, his voice rough and dry from inactivity. He tilted the book foward, looking at the black and red cover, his brow furrowing with thought for a quick moment. Then, he gave out a quick, faint smile; a small victory for finding the right words. "It's just about this muggle leader who sought absolute power, who manipulated his people with the idea of purification to get that power, the atrocities he committed in trying to do so, and how it ultimately all came crashing down around him." He shrugged, a small movement with a much bigger meaning. "You know, nothing too unfamiliar."

Draco's chest felt hollow, and his lungs suddenly emptied of air as Granger's words filled his head.

_He's manipulating you, he's manipulating all of you! All he cares about - the only thing he's ever cared about - is absolute power!_

A litany of questions rushed to his mouth but nothing came out. He tried to force them but it was useless, there were so many vying for attention that he couldn't even pick one out. He saw Lupin eyeing him carefully, gauging his reaction, and he didn't like it. Not knowing how else to react, he rolled his eyes.

"Brilliant," he mumbled sarcastically, shoving all of those questions and emotions back down his throat. He shifted in the bed until he was laying under the covers with his back toward Lupin. He'd only intended to feign sleep, but with minutes he found himself drifting off.

* * *

 

It was the smell of frying bacon that woke Hermione the next morning. She'd never been very big on bacon, or pork in general for that matter, as her mother liked to keep kosher. And while her father, who was very much not Jewish, usually happily humored her mother, he would also sometimes take Hermione out for breakfast and the two of them would indulge in pancakes slathered in sweet, sticky syrup and mounds and mounds of crisp bacon.

The room was bright, with the sun streaming in through the sheer curtains that hung over the window, and outside she heard the seagulls calling. She moved to stretch, but found a mass closer to her than she expected. Looking over, she saw that not only had Harry slept on the bed throughout the night, but Ginny had joined him as well, and the two of them were curled around each other on top of the covers.

She smiled, for a moment things were normal. She was just at the Burrow, spending the end of the summer with the Weasley's, excited about her final year of school. Everything that had happened to her felt almost like a horrible nightmare that she was just waking from, but just as she let out a breath and settled further into the warm blankets, a door slammed downstairs and she had a flash of Bellatrix's boots stomping toward her. She flinched and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself before sliding out from under the covers and quietly waking to the bathroom.

Turning both of the taps on, she ran warm water and splashed her face, trying her best to keep herself grounded. Her heart She reached for her toothbrush, her heart fluttering as her fingers wrapped around the wooden handle. She'd already brushed her teeth a handful a times in the nine or so hours she'd been there, but it still wasn't enough. As she returned the brush the cup and shut off the water, she heard rustling in the bedroom. Harry and Ginny were awake.

"Are you coming down for breakfast?" Ginny asked as Hermione re-entered the room. Hermione glanced from Ginny to Harry, the both of them looked so hopeful and happy to see her that she felt a small surge of inspiration and smiled.

"Yeah, I think I will."

"I'll go first," Harry said, and turned to Ginny. "So your mum doesn't… ya know." Ginny chuckled and playfully pushed him towards the door.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" Ginny asked, rubbing the top of Hermione's arm and giving her a sympathetic look.

Hermione's stomach twisted. Was this what it was going to be like now? Raised eyebrows and tight smiles, everyone walking on eggshells around her and treating her as some fragile porcelain doll? She bit her tongue and patted Ginny's hand. She knew she meant well, but she couldn't help thinking that Ginny wouldn't have been half as tentative if it were Harry or Ron she was talking to.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Hermione reassured. Ginny led the way out of the room and down the hall. The closer they got to the stairs, the louder the voices and noises grew. Everything sounded as though it were happening both right next to her and no where near her at the same time; dishes clanging, Dean asking if there was more coffee, a chair sliding across the floor, a door opening, shutting, Ron greeting everyone. Hermione's heart jumped and she stopped just at Ginny hit the first step.

"Hermione?"

Her mouth went dry. "I have to use the loo," she said, "you go on." Ginny frowned but didn't argue. Ginny nodded and Hermione watched her retreat down the stairs before turning back towards the hall. The already narrow space seemed to be closing in on her and she stopped to rub her eyes, to tell herself that the room wasn't moving. After a few deep breaths she realized she was in front of the room that Draco was being held in. She stared at the door, wondering who was in there with him, what he was doing. _I bet he wouldn't treat me like I was seconds away from shattering_ , she thought, much to her surprise. She shook the disconcerting thought from her head and hurried to the bathroom, lest the walls start breathing again.

The edges of the mirror above the sink were starting to oxidize, probably from all the salty sea air rushing in the through the small leaded window above the tub, which Fleur perpetually kept open. She felt like the mirror, which was once shiny and new and perfectly functioning, but was now tarnished and raw and exposed to the elements. Only the all mirror had gotten was the salt and the air and the oxygen; she'd gotten the brunt of war and the worst of humanity.

She touched the flaking edges of the mirror, then the bruise on her face. Her fingers ran over her cheekbone, but it didn't feel real. It didn't feel like it was her fingers, or her skin. Her fingers bent and she dug her nails into her flesh, pressing hard until she finally felt something, then gasped and pulled away. There were four little white crescent moons shining on her brown, freckled cheek.

"What's the matter with you?" her reflection asked, glaring at her with disgust. "You're stronger than this! Stop hiding in the bathroom!" For a moment she hated herself and how weak she was, but she took a few deep breaths and pushed through it. She paused at the top of the stairs to gather her breath and her courage. She was halfway down when she heard Ginny's voice.

"You're honestly just going to barge in, eat your fill, and not even offer to help with the dishes?"

"I didn't think it was a big deal!" Ron responded. "People are still eating!"

"You are unbelievable, you know that? You're a complete and total ass!"

Seconds later the back door slammed then came Bill's voice. "Just let it go," he urged.

"Whatever," she barely heard Ron respond.

"Oi!" Bill's had voice changed from placating to commanding. "You _don't_ get to do this anymore. She's back, she's safe, and you need to stop acting like _we're_ the enemy."

"'Course you're not the enemy. The enemy's right up there, snuggling up under one of Nan's quilts! And here you lot sit, gathered around the table, eating breakfast like you're on holiday."

" _Enough_."

"What happens when he gets whatever he came for and triggers the taboo, bringing you-know-who right to our doorstep."

" _Our_ doorstep? I'm sorry, I wasn't aware this house was left to you."

"That's not the point. I-"

" _The point is_ that this house belongs to Fleur and I, and if you think we haven't discussed this at length then you're a proper idiot. This house is warded up and down by all manner of great Aurors much more powerful than you. Should he trigger the taboo we'd be out of here faster than that no-nose bastard could blink; should try to harm anyone of us he'd be rendered immobile in an instant; should he break free and run back to his mummy he'd have one hell of a time trying find us again with his memories gone. _The point is_ that this is bigger than you, brother, and you need to get over yourself."

Hermione didn't want to hear anymore. She was tearing two brothers apart and she couldn't just sit on the stairs and listen. She wiped her cheeks and rushed down the rest of the stairs, using the bannister at the bottom as a pivot point to turn and head for the front door.

The cool air was a shock, the breeze nearly carried her breath away, and the bright sun reflecting off of the light sand hurt her eyes but she didn't stop. She wanted to find the ocean, needed to reach the shore, even if, in her heightened state, she didn't know which way to go. If she just circled the house, she was bound to get there.

What she found was much more sobering.

Her breath turned to lead in her lungs and her blood ran ice cold. Her knees buckled and she fell into the sand, hand over her mouth, a strangled cry fighting to get out.

Clamoring to her feet, she stumbled across the beach only to trip over one of the smaller rocks outlining the grave. Sand stuck to her wet cheeks, to her hands and clothes. She crawled up to the headstone, and her hands moved seeming without any input from her brain. Her fingers grazed the stone, tracing over her crudely carved name and her birthday, gasping at the apparent date of her death. They'd thought she was dead nearly the whole time. How, then, had they known to come looking for her?

She wiped her nose with the back of her wrist, the sand scratching at her lips. She heard a gasp, carried to her on the wind, and then a string of indecipherable French muttering began to grow closer.

"Oh 'ermione," Fleur said softly, laying a delicate hand on her shoulder and kneeling beside her. "I am so sorry." Fleur stroked the back of her head and Hermione let her pull her in closer, let her hold her as she cried. "We were so 'appy you were alive, we forgot to take it down."

After a few more minutes of sobbing Hermione finally tried to regulate her breathing. When she felt more in control of herself she pulled away. "How did you know?" she asked, voice still raw. She pulled at the collar of her shirt, using the sand-free inside to wipe her face. "How did you know I was still alive?"

Fleur looked the smallest bit confused. "You activated your coin, did you not?"

No, she had not. She didn't answer, instead she looked back at the stone, her hand reaching out on its own again. Rarely does one get to touch their own death. She couldn't help but wonder how it had all happened. Surely there wasn't a lot of fanfare involved, not in the middle of a war, not at a safe house that was so heavily warded. But then, someone had obviously put a lot of effort into carving this; they had to have for if it had been done with magic then the letters would have been uniform; even and straight.

She turned back to Fleur, her hair whipping behind her. "Who-" she started, but Fleur's face told Hermione what she already knew. Her heart sunk. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

"'e wouldn't let anyone else help," Fleur said softly. She looked like she was picking her next words carefully. "I am not trying to excuse his behavior. 'e was childish and rude and entirely insensitive 'owever..." She took a small breath. "'e _is_ my brother now, and so on 'is behalf I must ask zat you give 'im time, just time. 'e loves you dearly, even if 'e does not know 'ow to show it."

Hermione wiped her face again, not knowing what to say.

"You know Phlegm, if you'd have only meddled like that in front of mum she'd have never had a problem with you."

They both looked up to see Ginny standing above them, the sun radiating behind her. Hermione surprised them all with a small laugh. She took a deep breath and pushed her hair back, leaving her face towards the sky.

"Oh," she sighed, still trying to regain herself. "How am I still so tired?"

Ginny held out a hand. "Come on, there's a surprise for you inside."

She shook her head as the let Ginny pull her up. "I don't think I can take a surprise right now."

"You're going to love this one."

Together the three young women trudged through the sand and back into the house. It was emptier, and much more quiet. Save for one tiny human babbling in the living room.

Hermione gasped and Ginny and Fleur exchanged a smile.

"Oh my god," Hermione all but squeaked, reaching into the pale yellow bassinet. The baby smiled at her and just like that all of the stress and sadness she'd been carrying melted away. She knew it would all come back, and soon, but she didn't care. She looked back at Fleur and Ginny. "Is this-"

"Edward Remus Lupin," came a deep, slightly sleepy, voice. Remus stepped off of the last stair, a soft smile on his face. "But we just call him Teddy."

* * *

 

Draco was lost in a maze of endless darkened hallways and off-kilter rooms, calling out words he couldn't understand, running and running, looking for something, someone, he didn't know. The walls were breathing, the doors screaming. He thought he heard his mother crying out for him but he couldn't find her. He came to a glowing door at the end of a hall and it blew open before he could touch it. Sitting in the center of the room, on a dark red rug, playing with small wooden blocks, was a small boy; a tiny little boy in corduroy dungarees with shaggy blonde hair hanging over his ears. The boy stopped playing and turned to look at him. He smiled and the rug turned into a vat of blood that swallowed him up whole.

"No!" Draco startled himself away, nearly falling off of the tiny bed. He panicked, forgetting where he was for a moment.

"Steady there" came a raspy voice. Draco came too and blinked a few times, trying to let his eyes adjust to the light. When they did, they focused on not Remus Lupin, but on an olive skinned girl with short, lavender hair and amber coloured eyes. She had on a obviously hand-knitted grey jumper that looked two sizes too big with a yellow 'L' taking up most of the front. "You alright?" she asked, leaning forward.

"Fine," he huffed, throwing the covers off of himself and setting his feet on the floor. "Can I go to the lavatory on my own, or have you lot got to hold my hand there, too?"

He flinched when she let out an unexpected laugh. "They've transfigured the closet," she said, pointing to a small door in the corner of the room. He stood and glared at her, but she still found something amusing.

When he came out of the makeshift restroom, there was an extra chair in the room and a plate of food on the little table. It was breakfast of eggs, sliced tomatoes, toast, orange juice and a cup of tea. The girl motioned at the chair, then leaned back in her own, hands clasped behind her head.

"Thought you might like a proper seat," she said, tilting the chair back on two legs. "Didn't know how you take your tea, figured black was the safest bet."

Draco stared at the food. His aunt had sent down week old bread for Granger's first meal, and here they were, laying out a feast. As he pulled out the new chair to sit, a flurry of movement happened on the other side of the table and he snapped his head up. She had almost fallen backwards, and now had wide eyes and small smile on her face.

"Thought that was the end there for a mo," she said, still breathing a little quicker than normal. In the shock of her near-fall, her hair had changed to a light brown, her eyes darkened, and her nose shifted its shape from small and rounded into something more aristocratic. It struck him then.

"You're Nymphadora," he said, more to himself than anything. He regretted it instantly, as her eyes snapped to him and her hair flared a fiery red and orange.

"It's Tonks," she said, leaving no room for argument. Her hair faded to a barely there pink. "But yes, yes I am," she said, instantly calmer. "At least if you ask my mother," she mumbled. "Nice to meet you, cuzzo."

The weight of generations' worth of animosity and hatred settled in between his shoulder blades and he wondered if she felt it too. He glanced at her and saw she was gnawing on the nail of her thumb, and took that as a reluctant yes. He picked at his toast.

"There's orange marmalade," she muttered, pointing with her pinky finger, thumb still at her mouth.

He didn't want the jam, but he took the jar anyway and spread a little on the toast. Glancing at her again he saw the 'L' and more pieces started falling together. The baby blanket with the initials ERL, the too-big sweater... _she'd_ had the baby, and with Professor Lupin. Probably. Logically, anyway, what with all those 'L's.

The longer they sat there in silence the more the questions built up on his tongue. Why have a baby in the middle of war? Was it a boy or a girl? What was their name? Was he part werewolf - was that even hereditary? Did the baby have her powers instead? How did she grow up? How much of her mother's purebred upbringing trickled down? How much did her muggle father's? Did her mother every speak of his mother ever speak of his? Of their grandparents? Did she have stories he didn't? They echoed in his head, fighting for attention, until he couldn't hold it in any longer.

"What is your mother like?"

"What's your mum like?"

Her voice seemed just as strained as his, like she too had been trying to hold back and just couldn't anymore. They stared at each other for a moment before she laughed and he couldn't help but let out a tentative smile. He felt like he was carefully stepping out onto the frozen lake behind the manor, testing to see if it was solid and discovering that yes, this spot at least, would hold. For now.

Tonks stood and flipped the chair around, crossing her arms over the back of it. "Seeing as how I'll probably never meet your mum, you go first."

"You think I'll meet yours?"

"It's a distinct possibility," she shrugged.

He took another nibble off of his toast then wiped his hands. "My mum can chill you to the bone with a look," he started. "But she also knew just what to say when my favourite peacock died."

She gave a snort of a laugh.

"I was six," he defended. She held a hand up but was still smiling. "She's smart, and witty, and graceful under pressure." He missed her. He missed his father too, but not nearly in the same way. His father had always had a presence in his life, but his mother was a pillar in it. He could feel Tonks staring at him.

"Your turn," he mumbled, dropping the crust of his toast to the plate next to the cold eggs.

She took a breath, her cheeks billowing out on the exhale. "Um, well, I can say almost all of the same things. 'Cept for the peacocks, of course." She gave him a teasing look, but sighed when he simply scowled at her. "Oh lighten up, will you?" He took the scowl from his face, but that was it. "My mum speaks through her teeth when she gets angry, in a low and steady voice. Which is somehow worse than yelling. But, her laugh is about one of the best things in this world, and every once in awhile she'll get to laughing so hard she just can't stop."

His mother, warm as she was with him, had never really laughed like that. "Does she…" he swallowed, "does she have any pictures?"

He felt her staring again, analyzing him and trying to figure him out. He got the feeling she knew what she was doing, like she'd done this before. "Yeah," she finally answered. "Yeah she does. Most of the ones on display are of us, she, my dad, and I, and some of them are of friends but… Well, she has an old album that she keeps tucked away, with pictures of when she was younger. I haven't really seen much of it, though."

There was a beat, a small pause of awkward silence. "She has this one, of Sirius," she started, eyeing him to see his reaction, "he can't have be any older than seventeen. He's got this long, shining hair and these big bottomed jeans that were apparently all the rage at the time, and he's wearing this long sleeved, floral top that's tied at the bottom and doesn't even cover his navel and Mum's just barely in the frame, hiding her face and shaking with laughter and-" She starts laughing and Draco wonders if she looks anything like her mom. She sighs and shakes her head. "I guess you just have to see it."

"I guess," he mumbled, unamused. He couldn't help but wonder, though, about Sirius. He known he'd been burned off the family tapestry, but he hadn't known when. If he'd been with Andromeda at seventeen then it must have even been before that. Draco pictured the two families, his and Tonks', side by side in his mind.

On his side were his mother and father, in their best, most elaborate robes, standing next to each other with perfect posture. He was in front of them, just as stiff and formal, and they each had hand on his shoulder. His mother had a trace of a smile on her face, but that was it. When they moved, it was slowly and with purpose. His father bowed to his mother, and kissed her hand, and when they walked she very gently hooked her hand in the crook of his elbow, leaving a generous gap between them. They spoke in clipped tones and double meanings, never lying to each other but always to everyone else.

On the other side was Tonks and her family. He didn't know what her parents looked like, but he imagined them laughing and wrapping their arms around each other, imagined them watching their daughter run around and play. There was a comfortable nature between them all, they kept each other close and maybe her parents even kissed in public. They were playful, and always had other people around; _friends_ , friends who were treated like family. They were kind and honest and when they got angry they yelled and fought and let it all go.

"Oi, earth to Draco." It was hearing his given name that brought him out of his head, he hadn't heard it since he left home. Tonks had a hand up, like she'd just been waving it in front of his face.

"Earth to me? Pardon?"

Her eyes widened a little. "Oh, um. It's a muggle thing. Like, the people on earth are communicating with the people in the space ship."

Draco heard her, but it was almost as if she was speaking another language. Ships belonged on the water, not in the sky. " _Space_ ship?"

"You know, like a rocket?" She bit her lip and scrunched her face. "You know, I don't think I'm the right person to explain this. Are you going to eat anymore?"

He shook his head, pushing the plate slightly away. He didn't have much of an appetite.

* * *

 

The house was dark and quiet.

Outside the ocean crashed against the shore, advancing and retreating in a way that felt like a mother humming her child to sleep. The walls of the small room seemed to ebb and flow with the sound as the moon cast a silvery glow over everything. This should have been everything she needed to fall into a deep, peaceful sleep. Instead she was laying in a tiny bed, tucked away in the small dormer of the room where Ginny and Luna had been sleeping.

That afternoon she'd decided that Bill and Fleur needed their own room back; more than needed, they _deserved_ it. After all, they'd already given up the rest of their home to The Order and Hermione didn't really need a big bed and a room all to herself. So she transfigured a chair into a bed, smaller than even a single bed, and took up with her friends.

Only now she was so worried about keeping them awake with her nightmares that she couldn't fall asleep. Sure, Fleur had given her a potion to help, but she didn't want to become reliant on them.

She turned over on her side, her feet fidgeting with the bottom of the blanket. Ginny's red hair splayed all over the pillows and her light, rhythmic snoring was the only sign of life on that side of the room. She rolled to the other side, where she expected to see Luna with her head at the foot of the bed, or sleeping standing up, or something just a quirky. But Luna's bed was empty, with the down blanket thrown back and the pillow halfway off of the bed.

Hermione sat up and looked around, thinking maybe Luna had somehow made it to the floor or something, but she was gone. When had she left? And more importantly, how had she left without Hermione even realizing?

Carefully, she pushed back her own blanket and put her feet on the floor, then crept quietly out of the room and pull the door shut behind her. She looked down one end of the hall, where a cracked window let in a small ocean breeze, fluttering the curtains on either side of it; then down the other, where she saw the dull blonde top of Luna's head coming up the stairs.

"Hullo Hermione," Luna greeted, her voice light and soft. She was carrying two steaming mugs of tea. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," Hermione nodded. "What about you? Why are you up so late?"

"Oh, I'm _fine_. I was just having a perfectly nice sleepwalk and," she paused, and her eyes focused on the space beside Hermione, squinting a little as if she were trying to remember something. "I think I might have even made it outside because there's sand between my toes." She looked down at her feet as she wiggled her brightly colored toes. She shook her head. "Anyway, when I woke up I was outside of the door," she motioned with one of the mugs at the door to the room Malfoy was being kept in, "and I realized that Bill must still be in there and I thought, well that's not right, he should really be in bed with his wife. They've done so much, you know."

Hermione nodded, trying to keep up with it all.

"So," Luna continued, her face now looking adorably determined, "I went in and I sent him straight to bed! I think he wanted to argue with me, but he looked much too tired. I'm not even sure he made it all the way to his room before he fell asleep."

Luna chuckled and stopped talking as if that was the end of her story, but if it had been, she'd have been in the room and not out in the hall with tea. Hermione rubbed the bridge of her nose, it was really too late to deal with her friend's wandering mind. "And the tea?" she asked, trying to keep her patience.

"Oh! Well, I was sitting in there, looking out of the window - he really has a nice view in that little room - and decided that I'd like some tea. And while I was down I thought it rude to bring tea in the room and not offer him any, so I made him a cup too, in case he wakes up."

She smiled and Hermione held back a sigh. As batty as Luna could be, she really was too good for this world.

Luna yawned, and Hermione's mouth moved before her brain did. "You should go back to sleep, Luna." She started to protest, but Hermione reached for one of the cups in her hand. "I'll take a shift with him. Honestly, I have some questions I'd like to ask, anyway. You go to bed, I'll be fine."

Luna looked at her for a moment, contemplating her answer before smiling and giving one quick nod. "Okay, but you should have this one too." She pushed the second mug into Hermione's hand and skipped past her. Hermione shook her head and sighed. She moved one cup to the other hand, so that she was holding both of them together, and reached for the doorknob.

He was sitting up on the bed when she walked in, on top of the covers, with his feet on the floor and his arms gripping the edge of the mattress. His shoes were still on, but his coat lay draped across the back of one of the chairs and the sleeves of his shirt were undone and shoved up to his elbows. He looked up when she walked in and she saw the surprise in his eyes.

Neither one of them said anything as she shut the door and crossed the room, or when she set the mugs down on the table, ignoring the black and red book that was in the center of it. She pushed one towards him as she sat in the empty chair, and pulled the other one closer to her as she leaned back in it. He took the tea and held it in his both of his hands, gazing down into the murky water as if it were about to reveal a closely-held secret.

Her mind was contorting, doing acrobatics to try and figure out exactly what she was doing, sitting there across from him in a moonlit room well past midnight. Why had she offered to come in here? Why had she _followed through_ with it? Why didn't she change her mind and call Luna back once she realised he was awake?

Why, in Merlin's ancient name, did she feel more comfortable here than anywhere else in the house?

"Granger," he finally said, his voice heavy and gruff. In his short pause she thought of a dozen different things that could follow; an insult, a slur, some sort of wandless curse; a confession or an apology, of some sort; questions about her, the house, the Order.

He looked up, his features intense and cautious, as if he'd been working up to something big. He opened his mouth, closed again with a small breath, and then, nearly defeated, "What's a rocket?"

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so at least it's not another four month break in updates? i'd keep apologizing but i'm sure you guys know what you're into by now haha. this story just takes a lot out of me, but that just means that i'm putting a lot into it, right? yeah, sure, we'll go with that ^.^ anywho. some of you were excited about tonks and draco meeting and here it is! in all it's bittersweet glory. i really enjoyed writing that scene (as well as luna, omg that was fun) and i can't wait to right more. i also can't wait to write andromeda (spoiler alert? hah)
> 
> as for ch15, i'm planning to get in a lot of draco/hermione one on one time. there's a couple of scenes coming up that i've had in my head forever now and i love them so much i'm just not sure where they fit just yet, so hopefully we can fit at least one of them in soon. 
> 
> and as always, if you liked it, please please review! they mean the world to me, truly. even if you just bang your head against the keyboard and hit enter, i'd get the notification and be like !!!!!! haha. or you could tell me your favorite part of the chapter, or maybe just your favorite line. i honestly live off of feed back so please take a second to even just be like 'cool'. to those of you who keep reviewing, i love you all so much you don't even know. thank you! heart eyes for everyone!


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